


Why Fireflies Flash

by LyraRaineSparrow



Series: In A Song [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Humor, I can't even say slow burn, I guess since she returns to us., Minor Character Death, Temporary Character Death, because she falls pretty fast, for now, him not so much, slight romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 51,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraRaineSparrow/pseuds/LyraRaineSparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you slept with everyone in London?” Quinn blinked at the bluntness of Sherlock's question. “I have not slept with you, now have I?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Christabella Quinn, or Anabeth as she preferred, didn't always act the way she did. No, not at all. Growing up, she was never the emotionless being she was now. No one knew why, or how for that matter, she became as caring as a stone the summer after her junior year.

It worried her family, all nine of them, to the point of where the put her into therapy. Not that it helped at all. Whenever any of the sixteen various therapists got something out of her it would immediately but scratched after some variation of the eminent question of, “How does that make you feel?”

“I do not,” she'd reply monotonous.

“You have to feel something,” they'd argue.

“I am a sociopath. My emotions, if I had any, would be shallow at best.”

At that point, her parents appointed her a new therapist. None ever got farther than what they already knew. She pulled herself out of therapy after turning eighteen, dropping out of school right before graduation.

Her parents would blame it on getting into the “wrong crowd.” There'd have to be a crowd for that to be true.

She often ran into the law, sometimes getting off scot-free, she was a Quinn after all, meaning she held more power in her pinky toe than they'd ever hope to taste in their dull and ordinary lives. It was something that did not go wanted by Anabeth.

Perhaps because she already had too much attention drawn to her. She was the baby, after all, spoiled rotten by all seven of her older siblings, namely Fiona (the eldest, Anabeth's senior by nine years) and Alfred, or Alfie as everyone knew him as (only four years her senior). From the time she took her first breath in her room of the Quinn Manor (her mother thought a home birth would be best) to her almost marriage everything was documented. The perks of being the daughter of CIA royalty.

She didn't chose that path, unlike the triplets and her father. At least not at first. No, instead she took to the Marines like a flower took to sunlight. She thrived in the corps, quickly scaling the ranks to Gunnery Sergeant under her brother Liam's direction. Unfortunately, for an undisclosed reason (probably something to do with her father and possibly Alfie) she was Honorably discharged under the bias of a near-fatal wound. Claiming a Purple Heart on the way (they gave them out like candy), Anabeth returned home to the Quinn Manor.

It wasn't long before the haunting memories of the battlefield called to her again. She considered taking after her mother and applying for the FBI (it did seem the whole family was on the side of the government, save for Anabeth's brief stint as a convict) but the appeal wasn't nearly the same. So, after confiding in Alfie, he suggested, well, the CIA.

It was a perfect fit from the start. Though she did have some trouble getting in at first, seemed she needed to graduate high school at least.

She proved to be one of the best agents the Company had seen in a long time, rivaling only her father. It appeared that her emotionless take on the world, as well as her strong hand in logic and reasoning, was exactly what was needed. Not to mention her background in performance arts was the glue to the puzzle that Anabeth laid out for others to see.

Needless to say, this is where our story starts. A cliché for an almost cliché story in which two people meet and, with the help of some outside catalysts, find an almost unwanted companionship.


	2. Hush, Hush

“She's a quiet one, that girl Anabeth, the one renting the other flat,” Mrs Hudson says to Sherlock one morning. “Though, I suppose most artists are. And she keeps the strangest hours. Staying home all day, only to be out all night. An American too. Maybe you should introduce yourself?”

Sherlock ignored her, continuing to stare into the microscope placed in front of him.

“We're in the middle of a case at the moment, he's not going to answer,” John speaks up from his spot in front of his laptop.

“The end of a case,” Sherlock says flippantly as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “We're meeting Lestrade at Bart's.”

John rolls his eyes, stands to follow his best friend, and plants a friendly kiss on Mrs. Hudson's temple. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “I'll even drag Sherlock with me.”

“Coming, John?”

“Be careful, you two.”

“Always am!” Sherlock calls up the stairwell.

* * *

They didn't return until late that night, Sherlock stumbling around still drugged by the bartender, who was, of course, the murderer. While John was left behind to deal with the cabbie (who'd become irate after Sherlock's very thorough, very correct, deduction of his twelve year marriage ending in a long drawn out divorce, in which he lost _visiting rights_ for his children, after not one but five very bad affairs on her account) Sherlock stumbled up the door of 221B Baker Street. However, when he went to open the door, the handle was wrenched out of his hand.

“Oh Lord!” the woman said, hand over her heart. She gave a half giggle half snort sort of laugh at her own embarrassment. “You nearly scared me half to death! You must be one of the boys upstairs. I'm Anabeth Ryder.”

He didn't bother paying any attention to what she said, instead choosing to unravel her by what she wore; an off-white coloured ruffled blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt that was just above the length deemed appropriate for professional use. Well... it really depended on the profession.

Her hair, a natural jet black, was straightened and pulled into a high pony (practical). And speaking of high, the spikes on her feet had to be six inches at least (impractical and further proves his theory of her profession) and pale blue that, unsurprisingly, matched her eye colour, pocketbook, and near perfect manicure (there were a few chips and paint under her nails, an artist indeed). Her makeup was light and natural; opting for just a swipe or two of mascara and a pinkish shimmer that complimented her olive skin tone quite nicely (spends a lot of time tanning). She held herself like a woman in charge (she enjoyed power) but she tried desperately to hide it (doesn't want to stand out too much). The only jewelry she wore were hoop earrings and a pair of diamond studs in her ears and two gold chains around her neck, one older and obviously less cared for than the other (possibly a family heirloom, most likely a locket given to her as an unwelcome gift, she wears it in spite of her dislike of the person, it is an antique after all).

As for her voice and what she said, a Southeast American accent probably Virginian, North Carolinian or Tennessean, possibly a mixture of all three (with a hint of Georgian, specifically Savannah probably sent to finishing school). She threw her hand over her heart or rather her chest where the necklaces resting. The exclamation of “Oh Lord” combined with the aforementioned fact, the other necklace is probably a cross given to her at her baptism, suggesting she's highly religious (Baptist or Presbyterian, given where she's from).

“Conclusion: Anabeth Ryder is a high class prostitute, one willing to play the part of dominatrix easily, probably against her parents’ wishes. What whore didn't? Probably why she moved across an entire ocean. Phone calls and text messages are easy enough to ignore. Although, going by the emotionless look in her eyes, she's hiding something. Something serious, more likely the reason she moved to London.”

A raised eyebrow and a breathy “Ah,” from Anabeth in addition to a highly upset “Sherlock!” from John told the detective that the last part, if not all of it, was spoken aloud.

“You,” Anabeth said looking down at her shoes briefly, “must be Sherlock Holmes. Which means,” she smiled at John, “you are Dr. Watson. Anabeth Ryder. Pleased to meet you.”

“You as well. And please call me John.”

Anabeth's grin seemed to grow. “John then. I must say, Holmes, I'm impressed. Mrs. Hudson warned me about your interesting...hobby. And as I hate to admit, you're right on most accounts. I am a Southern Belle. Virginian, born and raised, though I did spend my junior high years with my grandparents in Savannah. I do come from a church-goin' family, Roman Catholic though. Baptized in the Vatican of all places, where I received this,” she held up the golden cross hidden in her bosom. “I did move here partially because of my family and partially because I'm hiding something. Good eyes, by the way. Pun not intended.”

“You had to humor him,” John mumbled.

“What did I miss?” Sherlock questions. “I always miss something.”

She gives a shrug. “Think about it, it'll come to you. As for me,” she points to something over their shoulders, “that's my ride. Best not upset the boss-man. See y'all later, yes?” She slips by and saunters towards the shiny black sedan waiting at the curb. “Oh, and Holmes?” she says at the door is opened.

Sherlock turned around, nearly losing the remainder of his balance.

“I prefer the term 'call girl.' It's _a bit more professional_ , don'tcha think?” With a wink she disappeared into the dark of the car, shutting the door behind her.

“She's not a 'call girl',” Sherlock says as the car pulls away.

John shakes his head, a grimace on his face.

“Not good?”

“A lot not good, Sherlock,” John snaps. “You can't just go around accusing our neighbors of being call girls.”

“Why not? Mrs. Hudson does it.”

“Well, Mrs. Hudson's...Mrs. Hudson,” he decided.

“I wonder if she's gotten to the wife in Doncaster yet...” Sherlock mumbles. “Doesn't matter. Anabeth's not a call girl, as it were.”

“Then what is she?”

“I don't know.”

* * *

 

**Inside The Car**

“So, I see you've met my brother. Finally.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Oh yes. He does seem to be quite the piece of work.”

“Does he suspect anything?” Mycroft wonders.

“Of me?” With pursed lips she shook her head. “Not yet. But he was drugged. Fully functioning, but his inhibitions and morals severely lowered, GHB is my guess. The date rape drug. He will not remember me in the morning. But with the right... stimulation, his memory will be jogged. Considering he nearly figured me out on the stoop, he will probably figure me out sooner rather than later. I would expect a phone call in a week or so. Now, I really do need to get to work. So if you could just drop me off at the club, I would appreciate it.”

* * *

**221B Baker Street  
** _**The Next Morning** _

“Sleeping Beauty's finally made it up, I see.”

John smiled at the new neighbor. “Woke up about three hours after you left.”

“So a full eight hours then? Good. The drugs have worn off then. How are you feeling?”

The brief conversation left the detective slightly confused.

“Of course,” Anabeth says. “You probably don't remember me. I'm Anabeth Ryder. We met last night, during your drug induced state. You deduced me in less than a minute. I was impressed.”

Sherlock squinted slightly as something jogged his memory.

“ _I prefer the term 'call girl.' It's_ a bit more professional _, don'tcha think?”_

Anabeth was dressed more conservative this morning, in a mint wrap dress that went just past her knees, black and mint platform sandals (only four inches this time), her hair was still pulled into that ponytail. There was something familiar looking about her. No doubt because of the meeting last night.

“You're not a call girl.”

She smirked. “Oh? Am I not?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Anyway, just came up here to see if either of you wanted to join me for tea. Today's my day off and I thought I'd spend some time with my neighbors. Mrs. Hudson's next door at the bakery. She'll get somewhere, but bless her heart, he's got two wives already.”

Sherlock squinted his eyes at her. “How did you know that?”

“I just observed. Like you, I guess. I suppose my eidetic memory helps in some ways.”

“Eidetic?” John asks.

“Photograpic, in layman’s terms,” Anabeth says. “She's a sweet old lady. Shame about her husband really. Almost married a guy like that once. Left me at the altar. Thank God he did too. I ran into him about four months back. Not exactly where I saw myself headed sixteen years ago. Sorry, I'm ramblin' again, ain't I?”

“Aren't,” Sherlock corrected.

“Hmm? Oh yes. Sorry. I'm normally a lot more formal than this. Must be me missing home. Anywho, tea? If now's not a good time, it's understandable. We'll get to know each other eventually. I do live just downstairs. I know it's a basement apartm – no, I'm in the UK it's flat – a basement flat, but with the right paint job and furnishings, it'll be ju.... Sorry, I'm rambling again. So, tea?”

“We were just leaving,” the detective states grabbing his coat off the back of the door.

Clearly this message wasn't passed along to John, for he continued to sit in his chair looking like a deer in the headlights. “We were?”

“Yes, John. I need to go to the bank. Anabeth, you're welcome to join us.”

“Well, I have been holed up here for the most part. I think a trip out is just what the doctor ordered.”

* * *

 

**Shad Sanderson Investment Bank**

Anabeth glanced around. She'd been in here before, a few times actually. Not for years, of course. Something to do with a past file. She couldn't be bothered to remember. It was a dreadfully dull mission, one that even her handler thought would've lasted longer. And Alfie knew her potential.

“When you said we were going to the bank,” John begins.

Anabeth has to stifle a true eye roll. “I might have only know him for just over twelve hours but from what I read on your blog, Holmes doesn't seem to be the type to run petty errands like this. My guess is he's got a case.”

John chooses to ignore her reasoning as they hop on the escalator to the reception desk. It seemed the detective's name really could get him into places.

* * *

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Anabeth looked up from her visual perusing. The office hadn't changed much in the two years she hadn't been here. The only thing really missing was the picture of his wife. Well, ex-wife now, the ring is missing too. Serves him right.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock announces as shakes the man’s hand.

“Hiya Buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?” He smiled the closed mouth smile that annoyed the hell out of Anabeth.

“These are my friends, John Watson and-”

“Anabeth Ryder. Been a while hasn't it?”

“Two years actually.”

Sherlock stared at her emotionless. “You know him?”

“Of course,” Anabeth says with a knowing smirk. “I know him a bit more... _intimately_...than you, though. Let's hope this meeting doesn't end up like last time, yes? Wouldn't want to embarrass you like that again.”


	3. Just Take a Look

**Shad Sanderson Investment Bank**

“So,” Sherlock says conversationally, “you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot.”

Seb shrugs. “Well, some. Not nearly as much as Annie-belle there, I assure you.”

“I've been in London for the past six months,” Anabeth quips with some spite. She never did like that nickname. “And before that I was strictly in Virginia. Family business and all.”

“Flying all the way around the world twice in a month,” Sherlock continues.

Sebastian scoffs. “Right. You're doing that thing. Yeah, we were at uni together,” he says to the other two. “This guy here had a trick he used to do.”

“It's not a trick,” Sherlock breathed.

“Annie-belle did something similar. No where near as impressive as this guy.” Anabeth rolls her eyes. “This guy could look at you and tell your whole life's story.”

“Yes,” John says, nodding once with a glance at Sherlock. “I've seen him do it.”

“Put the wind up everybody,” Seb continues. “We hated him. We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night.”

“I simply observed.”

“Go on. Enlighten me. Two trips all the way around the world. You're quite right. How could you tell? You're going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from a certain kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?”

“No. I-”

“Bet it was the mud on my shoes.”

“Actually,” Quinn snaps harshly. “We were talking to you secretary just outside. She told us.”

That wiped the know-it-all smile off Seb's face. Embarassed once again.

“I'm glad you could make it over, we've had a break in.” He stands and leads the out of the office. “Sir William's office. The bank's former chairman. It's been left here like a sort of memorial. It was broken into last night.”

“What did they steal?” John asks.

“Nothing,” Seb says stopping briefly. “They just left a little message.”

Anabeth nods as she looks around. _Keycard entry._

Seb stopped in the middle of the office with that same tight-lipped know-it-all smirk (how did Anabeth find him attractive?) flanked by John and Sherlock. Anabeth took her time coming into the office, pausing briefly when she saw the message; a squiggly almost eight topped with a straight line on the wall and a straight line over the eyes of the painting.

The men left a moment later leaving Anabeth alone. After a glance around the office, she sits in the plush rolling chair, closing her eyes and clasping her hands together save for her forefingers which she pressed to her lips.

That's how Sherlock found her upon his return.

“Bored?”

“Thinking.” Her icy eyes flashed open to catch his intrigued gaze.

“What do you see?”

“Let us start from the beginning, yes?” Quinn stands and goes to the floor length windows, openind one and stepping onto the balcony. “Keycard entry. Seb did not mention any unusual late night visits, so the intruder came in through the window. Obviously. Meaning he is athletic, it is a pretty high climb.” She leans over the edge a slight smile on her face.

“He came in at 11: 33 and left a minute later.”

She straightens and flashes him a smile before walking back in side. “Must be dealing with a professional then, hmm?” She points to the paint. “The message was left for someone whom comes in at midnight. Again, obvious.” She stands in front of the paining and turns on her heel, well balls of her feet. “Most likely someone in that line of sight.”

Sherlock stays to take a few pictures before he bounces out to figure out who the message was to.

* * *

“Two trips around the world this month,” John says when they're reunited. “You didn't talk to his secretary. You said that just irritate him.”

Anabeth shrugs. “Damn skippy. He called me Annie-belle.”

“How did you know?”

“Did you see his watch?” Sherlock wonders.

“His watch?”

“The time is right but the date is wrong,” the detective continues. “Said two days ago. Crossed the date line twice but didn't alter it.”

“Within a month. How did you get that part?” John wonders.

“New Breitling,” Anabeth answers. “Only came out this February. Bought my brother and his husband both one as their wedding presents.”

“Okay,” John says. “So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?”

“Got everything I need to know already, thanks.”

“Hmm?”

“The graffiti was a message. Someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient. and..”

“He'll lead us to the intruder,” Anabeth finishes.

“Obvious.”

“There is three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?” John questions.

“Pillars.”

“What?”

“Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot.”

“Does it?”

“Course,” Anabeth breathes. “Traders come to work at all hours.”

“Precisely. Some even trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was left for someone who came in at midnight. Not many Van Coon's in the phonebook.”

* * *

**Taxi on the way to Eddie Van Coon's Flat**

“How did you know Sebastian?” Sherlock asked as he stared out the window. “I wouldn't figure you for a girl with that taste in men.”

“Still certain I'm not a call girl?” Anabeth shrugs and looks straight ahead. “I'm not normally. I met him at a pub after work. Of course, back then I didn't do what I do now. I guess we hit it off. Dated for about half a year, before his wife called the number on his phone. I might have made a scene when I dumped him. Momma raised me right. I wasn't gonna be the mistress.”

The taxi pulled to a stop outside the building the flat was located in and the trio piled out. Anabeth ran ahead and buzzed him.

“So what do we do now?” John asks, after it was apparent Van Coon wasn't in.

“Just moved in,” Sherlock says.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock points the label above Van Coon's. “The floor above. New Label.”

“Could've just replaced it,” John answers.

Anabeth gave him a strange look as Sherlock buzzed the floor above. “No one does that.”

“ _Hello_?”

Sherlock perks up. “Hi, um, I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met.”

“ _No, well, uh I just moved in_.”

Sherlock shot John an _I-told-you-so_ look. “Actually, I just locked my keys in my flat.”

“ _Want me to buzz you in?_ ”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Yeah. And can I use your balcony?”

“ _What_?”

* * *

Anabeth sprints down the hall, he speed unhindered by the four inch wedged platforms on her feet.

“How can you run in the those?” John calls out from behind her. He walks much more civilly trying not to draw attention to himself.

“Oh, I can do a lot more than just run in these,” Anabeth quips suggestively.

The innuendo causes John to falter briefly, which gives Anabeth just enough time to pick the lock and slip in flat before the door shuts behind her, unbeknownst to her automatically locking behind her.

She's standing in the living room, her eyes closed, when Sherlock finds her.

“How did you get in here?”

She smiles. “I picked the lock. Much faster. Be nice and I'll teach you one day.”

“Nice to know,” he mumbled as he takes his turn around the flat.

_Champagne in the wine chiller. Likes to celebrate._

John buzzed for their attention. “Sherlock, Anabeth?” He buzzed again. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

They ignored him, moving deeper into the flat.

_Expensive hand soap in the bathroom. Bought for his girlfriend, no doubt._

Anabeth turns to say something to the detective, only to see him bust the bedroom door open.

“I could've picked that,” she says passively following him into the room. They pause at the sight of Eddie Van Coon lying dead on his bed. “It is not a suicide.”

Sherlock turned to Quinn with a slight look of admiration. “Yes. How did you know that?”

Anabeth smirked and tapped her nose. “You're a detective. _Detect._ ”


	4. Like a Piece of Meat

**Eddie Van Coon's Flat**

“Do you think he lost the lot of money?” John asks as Sherlock dons on latex gloves. “I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys.”

“You don't know that it was suicide,” Sherlock mumbles turning to the suitcase pushed up against the wall.

“Come on. The door was locked from the inside. You had to climb down the balcony.”

“And I picked the lock and it locked behind me,” Quinn said hovering over the consultant. “Killer could have gotten in that way.”

“Been away three days, judging by the laundry.” Sherlock stands nearly hitting Quinn as he did.

“Sorry,” she breathed backing away.

“Look at the case, John. There was something tightly packed inside it.”

John nods, turning back to the body. “Thanks, I'll take your word for it.”

“Problem?”

John looks at him incredulously. “Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some blokes dirty underwear.”

“Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti, why were they put there?” Sherlock inquired.

Quinn turned back to the body as the boys bounced back and forth, getting a bit miffed when Sherlock shoves her off to riffle through the man's pockets.

“What kind of message would everyone try to avoid? What about this morning, those letters you were looking at?” Sherlock questions as he pulls a wad of slobbery black paper from the victim's mouth.

“Bills.”

“Yes. He was being threatened.”

“Not by the gas board.”

“Course not.” Anabeth looks over in time to see a man join them in the room. “Looks like we've got company.”

“Ah Sergeant, we haven't met,” Sherlock say reaching out to shake his hand.

The man blatantly refuses, putting his hands on his hips. “Yeah, I know who you are. I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with the evidence.”

Anabeth clears her throat. “Someone didn't get laid last night,” she murmurs under her breath.

Sherlock gives her a warning look and hands over the evidence bag containing the paper. “I phone Lestrade. Is he on his way?”

“He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Dimmick.” DI Dimmick turned on his heel and left the room. “We're looking at a suicide.”

“That does seem to be the only explanation of all the facts,” John says glancing around the flat.

“Wrong! It's one possible explanation of some of the facts,” Sherlock says looking between the two men. “You've got a solution you like but you're choosing to ignore any evidence that doesn't comply with it.”

“Damn skippy,” Anabeth quips earning strange looks for everyone within earshot.

“Like?” Dimmick requests.

“The wound's on the right side of his head,” answers Sherlock.

“And?”

“Van Coon was left handed. Would call for quite a bit of contortion,” he explains as he atempts to shoot himself in the right side of his head with his finger gun.

“Left-handed?”

“Oh come on!” Anabeth shouts. “All you had to do is look around. If it was a snake it would have bitten you, multiple times. Coffee table of the left-hand-side of the couch. The handle of the coffee mug is pointing to the left. The plug in the outlet is on the left. Pen and paper on the left side of the phone because he habitually picked it up with his right. Easier to write messages down that way; it's a hassle to switch hands during a phone call, especially with a corded phone.”

“I think you've covered it, Anabeth,” John says.

“Oh, let her continue, she's nearly to the bottom of the list,” Sherlock retorts.

Anabeth smiled and gave a little curtsy. “Thank you, Holmes. In the kitchen, next to the piece of toast, there's a knife with butter on the right side of the knife, 'cause he spread it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Therefore someone broke in here, and murdered him. The only explanation of all the facts. Ergo, it was not a suicide.”

“But the gun-”

“He was waiting for the killer,” Sherlock tells. “He'd been threatened.”

“What?”

“Today at the bank,” John explains as Sherlock dons on his coat and scarf.

“He fired a shot,” Anabeth says as she went to leave. “The bullet went through the open window. When the ballistics come back you'll find that the shot that killed Eddie Van Coon was not the one fired from his gun.”

“Oh come on, what are the chances of that?” Dimmick asks.

Anabeth shrugged. “A lot better than you think.”

“But if the door was locked from the inside-”

“Well, he wasn't stupid, was he?” Anabeth sneers. “He did try to keep the killer out. The killer just... found another way in.”

“Then how'd he get in?”

“Good,” Sherlock says as if talking to a petulant child. “Now you're finally asking the right questions.”

* * *

“That, back there, that was impressive,” John says as Sherlock flags down a taxi.

Anabeth gives a smile. “Thank you, John. I try my best.”

“Are you two coming?” Sherlock questions from the open taxicab door.

Quinn's phone buzzes and plays the first bar of the Star Trek theme. It's a text from a blocked number but she knows who it is.

**Join me for dinner?**

She has to stifle an eye roll. As if he'd truly give her a choice. “Actually, I have a date. I will catch on with you two later back at Baker Street.” With a curt nod she begins to walk towards their usual meet up place.

* * *

**A Small Townhouse Somewhere in London**

“I am here! What do you want now?” Quinn calls as she saunters into the study.

“Oh, Annie-belle, don't be like that,” her caller says from behind the desk. “Anger doesn't suit you. You look too tense.”

“You summoned me like a dog. I am not a plaything. Wrong choice of words.” She shakes her head. “What do you want Jim? I have plans tonight, and work. I cannot miss another day. Calling in sick because it is that time of the month is one thing. But missing random days is beneath me.”

Jim frowns. “I don't like you working there. I don't like people looking at my possessions like their a piece of meat.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Oh, you own me now, do you?”

“Yes of course. Why wouldn't I?”

“Because you left me. At the altar, Jim. Looking like a complete fool. I do not think you can claim me as yours anymore.”

He frowned briefly before standing and circling her, He pressed a kiss to the sensitive part of her neck, right above her tattoo hidden beneath her dress. “But the fact that you came, proves I still can.”

Quinn heaves a sigh. “I still have work. And a life. You said you do not want this affair to be too obvious. I cannot keep dropping everything and come to your every beck and call.”

“I did make this meeting optional.”

“No you did not. A meeting with you is never optional.”

He giggled, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. “You've got me there.... Alright you can go. But I'll be in touch. And remember, I'm always watching.” He spun her around and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “Bye-bye, my little forever love.”

Quinn flashes a hazy smile to the man before her. Her heels make a hollow echo in the vaulted ceiling-ed room as she leaves pausing at the door only to call out what she hopes is a convincing, “I love you.”

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

_**The next day** _

“I said 'Could you pass me a pen?'”

The sudden noise jolts Anabeth awake. She'd come home later than usual that morning having been suckered into cleaning duty since one of the custodians had called in sick. Of course, being on a case Sherlock was awake and had heard her coming in. He promptly jumped at the chance at having “someone whose not a complete idiot” on the case. She had a feeling that was as close to a compliment that she's get from him.

At the time she was exhausted and just wanted to shower and go to bed, and after some bargaining she managed to convince him to let her shower and nap for a little while. She got a text from him an hour into her “nap” saying he needed to bounce ideas off her. Somehow she ended up on the sofa sleeping much longer than normal.

“What? When?” John asks.

“About an hour ago.”

“Didn't notice I'd gone out then,” John says, grabbing a pen off a table and tossing it to Sherlock who caught it one handed without looking. “I went to see about a job at that surgery.”

“How was it?”

“Great. She's great.”

“Who?”

“The job.”

“She?” Anabeth asks.

John spun around and smiled at the girl. She certainly was a sight to see. She was still clad in her sleep wear (hidden beneath a long black silk dressing gown), her hair was not straightened instead it looked a mess and in need of heavy brushing. “How'd you sleep?”

“Ah ah ah. No changing the subject. Who is this she?”

“It. I meant ' _it_ '.”

Sherlock rolled his eye. “Here. Have a look.”

John reaches the laptop before Anabeth, who decides not to crowd the men with her half-dressed self, choosing instead to stare at the symbols some more.

“'The intruder who can walk through walls',” John quotes from the article.

“It happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted. Exactly the same as Van Coon.”

“God. You think...”

“He's killed another one.”

“Well, if we're going to see Detective Inspector Dimmick, I'm going to need to get changed.” Anabeth spun around, the robe fanning out causing the ties to fall apart and reveal the baby doll lingerie hidden beneath it. She smirks at the dumbfound look on both men's faces. She managed to stand there for a full two minutes before Sherlock spoke up.

“Thatsprobablyagoodidea.”

“Come again?” Anabeth asked, a hint of humor in her voice.

He cleared his throat. “That's probably a good idea.”

“Thought that's what you said,” she spoke with a wink. She chuckled as she left the room, wrapping herself back up.

Like a piece of meat indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my little readers. I just want to thank you all very much for reading and favoring and reviewing this story. Really means a lot to me. I hope you guys are enjoying this little story! Thanks so much, loves!


	5. All of London

**Scotland Yard**

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist murdered in his flat," Sherlock says while typing away on DI Dimmick's laptop. He turns it around to show the article from earlier. "Doors looked from the inside."

"You've got to admit it's similar," John speaks from beside the consultant. "Both men killed by someone who could walk through solid walls."

"Detective, do you really think this is just another city suicide?" Anabeth asked.

Sherlock sighed. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose. And Anabeth was right, was she not? The bullet wasn't fired from his own gun."

"No," the detective answered.

"No. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

At the word gospel, Quinn smacked herself in the forehead. "Yesterday was Wednesday, was it not?" At John's nod she winces "Crap, I promised Momma I would go to Confessional. Gallivanting around with you all, I forgot," she says pointedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He's been doing that a lot since he met Anabeth... Turning back to the task at hand he leans forward, bracing himself on the desk in front of him. "I just handed you a murder inquiry. Five minutes in his flat."

With a sigh, Dimmick gives in.

* * *

**Brian Lukis' Flat**

Quinn found herself ogling at the clutter found in the newest victims flat. Research, she told herself, it is all for research. Still, it was a lot of books. She enjoyed reading but not this much.

"Four floors up." Sherlock smiled. "That's why they think their safe. Put a chain across the door, bolt it shut, they think their impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

"I don't understand," Dimmick states as Sherlock brushes past him.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Of course you do not. Do try to keep up. Our killer is a climber. A highly skilled one at that."

"What are you doing?" Dimmick asks as Sherlock opens a skylight.

"Clings to the walls like an insect. That's how he got in."

"What?"

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

"What? You're not serious. Like Spider-man?"

Quinn shook her head. "He climbed up six stories and jumped a balcony to kill Edward Van Coon."

"Ha ha ha h-hold on-"

"And of course that's how he got into the bank; he ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," Sherlock continues. He turns around and pauses in doorway leading out. "We've got to find what connects these two men." A bright orange book catches his eye. He opens it briefly before snapping it shut and storming out, leaving his two comrades to follow him.

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

Quinn pranced about the kitchen, not having eaten in nearly twenty-four hour, her stilettos tapping a non-rhythmic staccato beat as she gathers the ingredients for a bacon butty, proud of herself for remembering the term. As the bacon sizzled in the pan and the bread toasted, she tuned into the boys' conversation.

"So the killer goes into the back, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon, Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in, hours later he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen... Lukis goes home..."

"Late that night he dies too."

"Why do they die, Sherlock?"

Quinn placed her finished bacon on her toast and took it out on a plate and to the sitting room on a plate. "Well, that is the question, is it not? The cipher will tell us. I have seen these markings before. But I do not remember where. We figure the cipher, we find the killer."

* * *

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million pound security at the bank to the pin machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment," Sherlock explains as they round the fountain.

"Yes okay, but-"

"But it is all computer generated," Quinn says, her voice devoid of the usual emotion. Sherlock takes note of this and files it away for later use. "This code is too ancient for modern code breaking. Which is the point. Would not want the world knowing their secrets, would they?"

"Then where are we headed?"

"I need to ask advice," Sherlock says as they start to climb the stone stairs.

John's eyes widen in shock. "What? Sorry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You heard me perfectly. I won't say it again."

"You need advice?"

"On painting yes. I need to talk to an expert."

"Couldn't you just ask Anabeth? Why did we have to come here?"

"I'm afraid Miss Ryder doesn't possess the expertise I'm seeking."

The rounded the corner of the building, spotting a young kid spray painting.

"Part of my new exhibition," the kid says as he continues to spray.

"Interesting," Sherlock replies as he digs in his jacket for his phone.

"I call it 'Urbanbloodlustfrenzy'." He says the phrase like it's a single word.

"Catchy," John speaks with a hint of sarcasm.

"I got two minutes before a community support officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock holds out his phone. The kid takes it after tossing a can to John.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asks.

"Recognize the paint. Michigan hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"Yes, yes," Quinn says impatiently. "Now what about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"

"Not even sure it's a proper language."

"It is, I assure you. Now two men have been murdered. That cipher is the key to finding their killer."

"Well, come on, this is all you had to go on. It's hardly much, now is it?"

"Are you going to help us or not?" Sherlock barked.

"I'll ask around."

"Somebody must know something about it."

"Oi!"

The foursome looked over to see two officers rushing towards them. Sherlock, Quinn and the kid booked it. When they made it away safely the kid latched on to Quinn's arm giving her a huge smile.

"Are going to be there tonight?"

Anabeth smirked. "Damn skippy. See you there?"

"Wouldn't miss it." He left them then leaving a red hand print on her arm. Quinn frowned at it. It looked like it might be sore in the morning, especially after tonight...

"Have you slept with everyone in London?"

Quinn blinked at the bluntness of Sherlock's question. "I have not slept with you, now have I?"

There was that emotionless voice again. He could add a stiffer posture to the mix as well. There was something military about it.

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

The slamming of the door was the only warning Quinn and Sherlock received before John stormed into the flat.

"You've been a while," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah, well you know how it is; custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Fingerprints. Charge sheet. And I've got to be in magistrate's court on Tuesday," John rambled.

"What?"

"Me, Sherlock! In court! On Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!"

"Good. Fine."

"You can tell your little pal he's welcome to own up anytime."

"It's simple but I still can't place it." Sherlock slams his book closed and dropped it somewhere before shoving John's coat back on him. "No! I need you to go to the station and ask about the journalist. Personal effects would've been impounded. Get a hold of his diary or something that would tell of his movements. I'll go see Van Coon's PA. You retrace their steps and somewhere they'll coincide.

Quinn nods. "Good. I will go see one of my contacts. This whole Hong Kong thing has got me missing her. Perhaps she will give me some insight. I have been needing to brush up my Mand..." Her eyes widen in realization before she starts running in the opposite direction. "Catch you later!"

* * *

**The West End**

"Two men travel back from China both head straight for The Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?" John asks.

"It's not what they saw," Sherlock responds folding up the napkin with his notes of the Chinese numbers on it. "It's what the both brought back in those suitcases."

"You don't mean 'duty free,'" John states. A waitress appears beside him with his food. "Thank you," he breathes.

"Think about what Sebastian told us," Sherlock says leaning forward after the woman had left, "about Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million..."

"Made it back in a week. That's how he made such easy money," he says nodding toward the shop across the way.

"He was a smuggler," agreed John, as he popped a bite in his mouth.

"It would've been perfect, businessman making frequent trips to Asia. Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggle stuff out, The Lucky Cat was their drop off."

"But why did they die?" John wonders. "It doesn't make any sense. The both turned up at the shop to deliver the goods. Why would someone threaten them, and kill them, after the event, after they've finished the job?"

The question had been brewing in Sherlock's mind as well. If everything had gone according to plan, why would they end up killed? There was no point... Unless... He smiled. "What if one of them was light fingered?"

"What do you mean?"

"Stole something, something from the hoard?"

"But the killer doesn't know which one took it, so he threatens them both." John glances out the window, pausing when something catches his eye. "Is that Anabeth?" he asks.

Sherlock follows his friends gaze to the flat next to The Lucky Cat and sure enough there stood the woman with her straight black hair in its ever present ponytail. She knocks on the door, having already buzzed the inhabitant, waited a moment before walking away and down a nearby alley. Sherlock glimpses at the sky. "Remind me," he says, "when was the last time that it rained?"

* * *

Sherlock runs his thumb across and exposed corner of the phone book. "It's been here since Monday." He stands and rings the bell briefly in hopes that Quinn was already inside. Needless to say she wasn't. Turning abruptly, he followed the path Quinn too to the alley behind the apartment. "No one's been in that for at least three days."

"They could have gone on holiday."

"Do you normally leave you windows open on holiday?" Quinn asks from the fire escape.

The two men looked up to see the (have we come to a consensus on her occupation?) look down upon them. Sherlock took a few steps back before getting a running start and jumped to grabbed the ladder for the fire escape. He scaled it quickly and joined her.

"Impressive. Now, do it in seven inch stilettos."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"What if she had a cat?" John asks.

"Soo Lin did not have a cat," Quinn replied as they slipped in the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's another chapter. Thank to you guys for reading. Stay clever. -Lyra


	6. Oranges

**Soo Lin Yao's Flat**

Quinn winced at the sound of Sherlock knocking the vase off the table next to the window. The wet spot on the rug caught his attention. "Someone else has been here. Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase, just like I did."

"My father helped Soo Lin Yao escape from the Black Lotus crime syndicate," Quinn says as she checked the drier. The clothes smelled heavily of mildew. "Back before he was promoted. After that, the only person she would talk to was me or my brother, Alfie."

The doorbell buzzed. "Do you think maybe you two could let me in this time?"

Sherlock ignored John's pleas as he felt the fabric hanging on the door. "Interesting."

"Could you not keep doing this please?" John begged. Again his cries were ignored.

Quinn went to the counter and scribbled a note in Mandarin before turning around in time to watch Sherlock choke back a gag brought forth from the smell of rancid milk. She had to stifle a giggle. "Should have checked the date."

"We're not the first," he says ignoring her.

"Obviously. She would be at the museum if we were. Somebody is after her." She walked over to an older photo of Soo Lin and her brother.

"Size eight feet," Sherlock states, "small but athletic."

"Small, strong hands," Quinn whispers analyzing the hand print on the glass. "Our acrobat."

"Why didn't he close the window when he lef- oh... Stupid, stupid! He's still here." He looked around spotting the changing screen in the corner. Slowly walking towards it, he reached out, and when his fingers graced the edge, pulled it aside to reveal an empty space behind it. Behind him, Quinn gasped and began choking.

He spun around to spy the killer choking Quinn with a piece of white fabric. He didn't move a foot before Quinn picked her foot up and stomped on the assailant's foot. He loosened his grip just enough for Quinn to pull what turned out to be Soo Lin's dish towel from his hand. She managed to spin around before the man gripped her neck and threw her into the vanity across the room. The mirror shattered on impact, slicing through the silk of her dress and giving Quinn a two inch long cut on her left shoulder blade.

"Anytime you want to include me!" John calls through the mail flap.

"John!" Sherlock tries. The call, however, is too weak to be heard by him.

Standing up straight, Quinn tore herself from the pain in her shoulder to the scene of Sherlock now being strangled by the killer. Shaking the glass from her hair, she bound over to them, kicking the smaller man squarely in the chest, effectively causing him to back off.

"-MASSIVE INTELLECT!"

The move cost Quinn her balance, allowing the man to slip something in Sherlock's coat pocket before slipping back out the window.

Sherlock pulled the towel from around his neck and started hacking trying to bring air back into his lungs. He sits up and slips his hand into his pocket pulling out a black origami lotus.

"He was not planning to kill us," Quinn says breathless.

"Certainly felt li..." he clears his throat, "like he was."

"Strangulation is not his M.O. We need to find Soo Lin. Before he does." She held her left hand out to him to help him up. Her took her up on her offer and clasped it. Needless to say, she pulled him up but with a slight wince as the move tugged at the newly made wound.

"Are you hur... ahem... hurt?"

"Please do not feel like you must feign worry over me. It is not needed. I am fine." She pulls her hair out of the knot holding it on the crown of her head.

"Best not to ment... ahem... mention this t..." he coughed, "to John."

"Agreed."

Sherlock opens the front door, clearing his throat once more. "The uh milk's gone funny, washing's starting to smell, somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

"Somebody?" John asks.

"Soo Lin Yao," Quinn says from behind Sherlock. "We have to find her."

"But how exactly?"

Sherlock bent down, drawing in a deep breath and picked up and envelope from the ground.

**Soo Lin,**  it read,  **please** **ring me. Tell me you're OK. Andy.**

The Consulting Detective flipped it open.

**National Antiques Museum**

"We can start with this," he says holding it up.

"You've gone all broken. Are you getting cold?" John asks, finally noticing his friend's distress as the trio head down the street.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm fine."

* * *

**National Antiques Museum**

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Quinn asks as she paces the Asian wing of the museum.

"Three days ago," Andy answers, "Here at the museum. This morning they told me she'd resigned. Just like that. Left her work unfinished."

"That does not sound like the Soo Lin I know. This museum was her life. Was she acting any different when you last spoke?"

Andy shook his head. "Not that I could tell."

"What was the last thing she did on the final afternoon?" Sherlock asks.

"She was working on those tea pots, was she not?" Quinn questions jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

Andy nods and motions for them to follow him. He leads them to the back storage area.

"She does this tea ceremony for the tourists," he explains as he flips on the light. "So she would've packed up her things and put them in here." He ushers the group to where he knew Soo Lin would've put her things.

The marble statue hiding in the shadows pulls Sherlock's attention away from whatever Andy was about to say. The cypher covers her.

"Oh dear Lord," Quinn breathes behind him.

* * *

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock states as they leave the museum.

"If she's still allive," John retorts.

Quinn shoots a glare at John. "Your pessimism is not amusing."

"Sherlock!"

The trio pause on the landing and turn around.

"Sherlock!" The kid from earlier came running towards them.

"Ah look who it is," John quipped.

"Found something you'll like," the kid says breathless walking past him.

Quinn freezes remembering that she does in fact have a steady job every night. "Holmes. Promise me you will find Soo Lin."

Sherlock looks at her curiously, trying to decipher her emotionless face, not even her eyes held a drop of worry. She was good. Another something to add about the enigma that was Anabeth Ryder. "You can't work."

"Excuse me?"

"You're arm," he points out. "It might not have bothered you earlier, but it is now. I can tell by the way your shoulders are set." True enough, Quinn had taken up a slightly different posture unconsciously, so as to relieve the slight pain and lack of comfortableness from her injury. "There's no way you'll be able to hold yourself up. Plus it's too raw for any amount of make-up. Wouldn't want your boss to think your boyfriend's abusing you, do you? Bad form. So the floor routine is out as well."

"I cannot just not show."

"Call in sick. You'll be doing yourself a favor."

* * *

**Underground Skate Park**

Technically, it probably wasn't originally a skate park, but with years of wanna-be "cool kids" covering it in their 'tags' and whatnot, it's what it ended up being.

"If you want to hide a tree, then the best place is in a forest," chides Sherlock. "Wouldn't you say? People would just walk right by, not knowing, not able to decipher it."

"There." The kid points ahead of him. "Spotted it earlier."

"And that's the exact same paint?" he questioned.

"Yeah."

"If we're going to decipher this," Sherlock begins, "we're going to need more evidence."

* * *

Quinn had placed herself with John under the ruse that spending time with a fellow soldier would be good for her. That and she needed to talk to him about the "she" from earlier.

"She's no one," John pushes for the umpteenth time as they walk down the train tracks.

"Fine," Quinn finally relents. "I will not ask again."

"Good."

A comfortable silence settles between them. It doesn't last long, however, for John looks over and catches the slight pained look on Quinn's face.

"What happened to your arm?"

She shrugged. "I saw a spider and jumped, lost my balance and crashed into Soo Lin's vanity. The mirror shattered and now my shoulder blade is sore. It is no big deal. I have had worse."

He paused. "Let me see it."

Quinn shook her head, continuing on. "It is fine, John. Figuring this code before Soo Lin shows up dead is more important than me babying a wound."

"Fine. But you will let me see it when we return to the flat." There was finality to his voice that impressed Quinn. "If Sherlock said something about it, it has to be bad."

"Holmes is a worry wart."

"No," John retorted. "Sherlock doesn't care. Much less about someone he met three days ago."

"Look," Quinn says raising her hand.

"No you look-"

"Oh, do shut up. It is one of your worst qualities. Look there." She points to a brick wall just ahead of them.

The markings are hard to make out in the shadows but with a quick shine of John's torch, her suspicions are confirmed. One quick swipe with her eyes and the sequence is forever imbedded in her head. Still, John takes a picture with his phone just for good measure.

He places a few calls on his mobile before he realizes that the receiver wasn't going to pick up.

* * *

"Answer your phone, I've been calling you," John calls out as soon as he and Quinn are within earshot of Sherlock.

They race back to the wall. A brief thought passes through Sherlock's head wondering how Quinn can still be wearing those heels after walking all day in them. Most women would be complaining by now.

"It's been painted over," John says as they return.

"Obviously," Quinn breathed. "Is this what you have to put up with all the time?" She receives a brief nod from the consultant. "My handler would never say something that obvious."

Sherlock raised a brow at her choice of words but didn't comment.

"I don't understand. It was," he touched the now black wall with a finger, "here. Ten minutes ago. We saw it a whole lot of graffiti."

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it." Sherlock spins swiftly and places his hands on either side of Quinn's face, she being the closest to the detective.

Her breath quickened. She didn't like being this close to people she just met. "Holmes, what are you-"

"Shh. Anabeth, concentrate. I need you to concentrate, close your eyes."

"What? Why? I'm not-" She was cut off by him moving his hands down to her upper arms, pressing on her scrape lightly as he passed it. Oh, so that's what this was about. "What are you doing?"

He started to spin her around with himself being the focal point. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. I need you to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yes."

"Can you remember it?"

" _Yes._ "

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Damn skippy."

"How much can you remember it?"

"All of it. Do not worry."

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"It is a good thing that I am not average then, is it not?"

"Really?" He didn't sound like he agreed with her. She'd have to fix that.

Quinn shrugged out of his... embrace, for lack of a better word, and backed away. "Eidetic memory, remember? Besides, John took a photo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have forgotten I started posting this here... Ooops...


	7. Up The Waterspout

**221B Baker Street**

"Always in pairs," Sherlock says as he stares intently at the wall of blown up photos. "Numbers... come with partners. Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," John breathes as he works on Quinn's shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, but you deserve it."

"I deserve it?" Quinn breathes in deep stifling another outcry of pain. "What the hell did I ever do to you to deserve this?"

John rolls his eyes as he injects the numbing agent around the gash. "You should've had me look at it the moment it happened."

"Sorry," she snapped. "I was a bit busy trying not to be hurt by the spider."

"That's not an excuse. Stay still, wouldn't want to  _hurt_  you anymore."

She rolled her eyes as he swiftly closed up her wound. She tried to pay attention to Sherlock's rambling to himself but the gentle tugging on her shoulder grabbed her attention. It would've been done as soon as they returned to the flat but she insisted on helping Sherlock translate the numbers and John took the chance to get in a few winks. Eventually, though, John had woken up and insisted himself on checking out her shoulder.

"Whatever was stolen he wants it back. It's all somewhere within this code."

"Yes the book code," Quinn breathed. "Which we cannot crack without Soo Lin."

"Book code?" Sherlock asked turning to face her.

Quinn pulled the shoulder of her dress back up and shot him a blank stare. "Yes, book code."

* * *

**National Antique Museum**

After changing quickly into a less bloodied dress and shorter heels, the trio took a trip to the museum where they met up with Andy again.

"Two men who traveled back from China were murdered," Sherlock informs harshly. "And their killer left their messages in Hangzou numerals."

"Soo Lin Yao is in danger," John speaks up. "And that cypher, it was just the same pattern as the other. He means to  _kill_  her as well."

"Look, I've tried everywhere. Friends, colleagues, I don't know where she's gone. I mean she could be a thousand miles from here."

"Thanks, Alfie," Quinn breathes into her cell phone. "Sorry to bother you on your honeymoon." She turns back to the group. "He is right. If neither me nor Alfie can find her, then he certainly would not be able to find her." She glances at Sherlock who was staring off into the distance. "What are you looking at?"

He points to a glass case right behind her. "Tell me more about those teapots."

"Well, the pots were her obsession," Andy explains. "And they need urgent work. If they dry out then the clay will start to crumble. Apparently you just have to keep making tea in them."

"Yesterday only one of those pots were shining," Sherlock observes. "Now there are two."

"She will be back tonight to do another one," Quinn states."

Sherlock nods. "So now we wait."

* * *

**Later That Night**

"You saw the cypher. You know he is coming for me."

Quinn gives a nod. "You have been clever at hiding from him. But I do not understand why you did not contact me or Alfie for help. We can get you away safely."

"I had to finish," Soo Lin says, "to finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he?" Sherlock asks. "Have you met him before?"

Soo Lin gives a soft nod. "When I was a girl. He came back from China. I recognize his signature."

"The cypher."

"Only he would do this. Zhīzhū."

"Zhīzhū?" John asks.

"The spider," Sherlock and Quinn respond at the same time, Quinn more pointedly than him. John looks at Quinn suddenly getting her story about her shoulder.

Soo Lin removes on of her shoes and shows Sherlock her heel. "You know this mark?"

"Yes," he states in reply. "It's the mark of a Tong."

"Hmm?" This is John, the ever curious one.

"It is an ancient crime syndicate based in China," Quinn reveals.

"Every foot soldier bares the mark. Everyone who hos for them."

"Hos?" John asks softly. "You mean you were a smuggler."

"I was fifteen, my parents were dead. I had no livelihood, no way of surviving day to day, except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" Sherlock wonders.

"They are called the Black Lotus," she tells. "By the time I was sixteen I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. I managed to leave that life behind me. Mr. Quinn brought me to England. He got me a job here. Everything was good. A new life."

"Until he came looking for you."

"Yes, I'd hoped after five years, maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. In a small community like ours, they're never very far away." She wiped away her tears as Quinn rubbed her back soothingly. "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him, to track down something that was stolen."

"You've no idea was it was?" John inquires.

The young Chinese woman shakes her head. "I refused to help."

"You knew him well when you were living back in China?"

Soo Lin nods "Oh yes. He's my brother."

Sherlock gives Quinn a look that simply states, "That would've been nice to know earlier."

She shrugs giving Soo Lin's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the streets like beggars." Soo Lin takes a deep breath. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan; Black Lotus General." She glances up briefly at her company. "I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work, and the cypher was waiting."

Sherlock stood and pulled out the pictures of the wall and cypher out, sliding them in front of her.

"Can you decipher these?"

"These are numbers," she explains.

"Yes I know."

"Here the line across the man's eyes; it's a Chinese number one."

"And this," Quinn points to the other piece of the cypher, "is fifteen. You taught me the numbers remember? But can you tell us what this means?"

"All the smugglers know it," Soo Lin explains. Quinn had to fight from losing her patients with the younger woman. "It's based upon a book."

Suddenly the lights go out, and Quinn sighs resignedly. "Keep an eye on her. Do not let her out of your sight," she orders a demanding tone in her voice before running out of the room.

"Anabeth!" Sherlock whisper-yelled, but she'd already left the room. He followed her out into the main hall, ignoring John's calls of his name from behind him.

He gets to the other side of the statue found there before he realizes he has no idea where she went or where he could be. He spun to face the statue debating on calling out her name again when a gunshot rang out behind him. As he dived for the solace of the statue two more shots were fired off, one decidedly closer than the other. As he backed up against the statue, he watched as Quinn came running towards him, small handgun in her hand.

Zhīzhū fired off two more rounds matched by one from Quinn.

"Dammit Holmes," she sighed as she. "I told you to stay put."

"Technically, you said to keep an eye on Soo Lin. She's fine," he states. "John's with her."

Quinn shakes her head and ducks as two more shots are fired from the balcony. She's quick to fire off three in response, narrowly missing him with each. "I hate handguns," she breathes.

Another shot aimed at them and Quinn fires back.

"Ten," she mumbles as she drops the now empty clip on the marble floor and digging into her pocketbook for her other one.

"I counted six."

She shook her head before standing and reloading. He picked up the empty clip and stuffed it in his pocket as he followed her to the evolution exhibit. Sherlock takes cover as the two shooters continue taking turns shooting.

"Careful!" he shouts. "Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect!"

Quinn comes to stand in front of him, the shooting on both sides ceasing.

"Thank you," he says loud enough for only her to hear.

She lets out a shaky breath which turns into a small giggle. "Oh god," she says catching her breath. "That was fun."

Sherlock looks at her strangely, taking in the excited glint in her eyes. It's gone a moment later and she's running. Back to the restoration room, back to Soo Lin. When the shot rings out, her steps falter in to nothing and she stops right outside the room. She squeezes her eyes and lets her hands hang by her side for an agonizing moment before pushing open the door and slowly walking over to Soo Lin's body.

The young Chinese woman had been laid gracefully upon her workspace, her eyes shut and her hand outstretched holding a black origami lotus.

It looked as if she was a sleep, well, except for the bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.

A hand is placed on Quinn shoulder and she looks up to see John giving her an apologetic look. She shrugged him off before turning sharply and leaving the room.

* * *

**Scotland Yard**

"How many more people have to die before you realize this assassin is out there?" Quinn questions harshly of DI Dimmick who walks past her without bothering to respond. "A young girl was gunned down tonight. That is three victims in three days. You are supposed to be finding him."

"Says the woman who shot up a museum," he mumbles beneath his breath.

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis were working for a gang of international smugglers, the same gang my father saved Soo Lin Yao from five years ago, a gang called the Black Lotus, operating here in London,  _right under your nose,"_ Quinn sneers at the man, her voice low and threatening.

"Can you prove that?" Dimmick wonders.

Quinn gives him a haughty glare. "Damn skippy."


	8. American Psycho

**St. Bart's**

"What are you thinking pork or the pasta?"

Molly jumped at the all too familiar voice. "Oh, it's you," she says with a too bright smile.

"I'd stick with the pasta. Wouldn't be doing roast pork. Not if you're slicing up cadavers." Sherlock gives her a small smile, while Molly's falters.

"What are you having?" she asks.

"Don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down," he responds as he spies the less than appealing food.

"So you're working here tonight?" Molly wonders.

"Need to examine some bodies."

"Some?"

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

She glanced down at her clipboard. "They're on my list."

Sherlock gives faux gasp of shock as his eyes light up.

 _Oh, I know that look. And whatever you're about to ask the answer is_ no, Molly thinks to herself.

"Could you roll them out again for me?" he asks with a fake look of... whatever, Molly decided she didn't want to know as she glances down.

"W-well, their paperwork's already gone through."  _That means no._

He starts to frown before he's sidetracked by something.

_Probably going to compliment me somehow, just like always. But this time I won't give in._

"Oh, you changed your hair," he says pointing it out.

"What?"  _My hair looks horrible. I just pulled it up to keep out of my way._

"The style. It's normally parted down the middle."

"Yes, well-"  _Don't give in. Don't give in. Don't give in._

"No, it's good. It, um, it suits you better this way."

Molly smiles and blushes.  _Damn you, Sherlock, damn you and your perfect cheekbones and your coat and you. Damn you_ , she thinks as she leads him down to the mortuary.

* * *

Molly unzips the bag containing Brian Lukis, giving the lifeless man a solemn smile.

"We're just interested in the feet," Sherlock says as he strides into the sterile room with two people she'd never met at his heels, a man and skimpily dressed woman.

"The feet?" Molly asks confused.

Sherlock shoots her a demeaning look changing it into something softer before she turned. "Yes. Would you mind if we had a look at them?"

With a huff she unzips the bottom of the bag and moves the plastic so they could see all of them. On the heel of his right foot was a tattoo of a black lotus. With a disdainful smirk, Sherlock asks for Van Coon's feet to be revealed. When the new man saw the feet, his brow raised.

"Oh, so-"

"So, either they decided to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor, or I'm right." Molly was taken aback but the condescending and entirely pissed off tone in the American woman's voice. So she was working with Sherlock.

"What do you want?" the man asks.

The woman goes to open her mouth but Sherlock beats her asking for every book in both men's apartment.

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

"It's not just a criminal organization, it's a cult," Sherlock says hanging up his coat on the door. "Her brother was corrupted by one of the leaders."

"Yes, Soo Lin said the name," John says from his seat.

Quinn took a seat on the sofa. "Yes, General Shan."

"We're still no closer to finding to finding them."

"Wrong," Sherlock and Quinn say simultaneously. They share a look in which Sherlock's curiosity is piqued by her yet again that night and gives her the go-ahead to explain. "We have almost all we need to know," she explains. "Soo Lin filled in most of the missing pieces. Why did Zhīzhū need to visit his sister? Why did he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum," John answered.

"Exactly."

"An expert in antiquities." He shook his head like he should have gotten it sooner. Which, according to the other two in the room, he should have.

"Valuable antiquities, John," Sherlock explains further. "Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to thousands of treasures hidden after Mao's Revolution."

"The Black Lotus is selling them."

* * *

"Check for the dates..." Sherlock mumbled to himself as he skimmed the list of items for auction at Crispian's. A pair of Ming Vases appear on the screen and Quinn jabs her finger at it.

"There! John, look," she says. He walks up to the other side of Sherlock using the chair and desk to keep his balance.

"'Arrived from china four days ago'," Sherlock reads. "'Anonymous'. Vender doesn't give his name. 'Two undiscovered treasures from the East'."

"One in Lukis's suitcase. One in Van Coon's."

Sherlock pulls up another search page. "Chinese antiquities sold at auction."

"There," Quinn says. "Arrived a month ago. Chinese ceramic statue. Sold for four hundred thousand. Congruent with Lukis's schedule. And the one below that. The painting sold for half a million, coinciding with Van Coon's schedule. The same with the rest of them."

John glances at her. She was right of course, he'd been checking himself, but as far as he saw she never took her eyes from the screen.

"So what if one of them got greedy in China?" Sherlock asked. "What if one of them stole something?"

"That's why Zhīzhū's come," John agrees.

There was a knock behind them drawing all their attentions around. "Yoohoo," Mrs Hudson calls. "Sorry to bother you boys. And you Anabeth. But are we collecting for charity?"

"What?"

"A young man's outside with crates of books."

"Dimmick," Quinn remembered. "Tell him to bring them up, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson gives a nod before she goes back down stairs.

Soon, they're surrounded by what is undoubtedly hundreds of books, their hope of figuring the code diminishing more and more with each crate that passed the doorway.

"The numbers are references," Sherlock begins to tell his partner.

"To books?" John guesses.

"To specific pages in a book and a specific word on that page," Quinn replies.

"Right. So fifteen and one..."

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read," continues Sherlock.

"Okay, so what the message?"

"Depends on the book. That's the cunning of the book code. Has to be one that they both own."

"Right, shouldn't take long," John uttered sarcastic. He half expected Quinn to say something about it as she seemingly did every time he used the device, but with a glance at her he knew she wouldn't. The (again, they've spent the majority of three days with the woman, and he still had yet to come up with an occupation suitable for her) was staring quite intently at the detective across from her, unblinking, but with a closer look, he could see the same traits Sherlock got when he reverted into his mind palace.

It made sense to him, she did just lose, well, he assumed she was a close friend. The way she reassured Soo Lin certainly told him they were close. He found himself apologizing yet again to her, his hand on her shoulder. He let it rest there for a moment and was about to remove it when she blinked rapidly and turned to face him.

"She was just an asset," she said emotionless before reverting back into herself.

His hand slid off her shoulder as he spared his flat mate a glance. The consultant was elbow deep in a crate of books seemingly unfazed by their conversation. Just so, John went back to work.

Meanwhile, deep in her head, Quinn ran her finger down shelves of books making note of which ones she spotted in both flats. They were in no particular order that she could see. Perhaps chronological, yes that seems – no she read that last week.

Her head was always like this. Jumbled with random facts and things she didn't need. The more important things though were clustered together. Filed away in a clean office area depending on what case they belonged to. She'd already gone through Soo Lin's file with a fine tooth comb, and there was nothing in there that hinted at what book as used for the code. She'd just gotten to the door to the library when John interrupted her. Just to apologize at something that couldn't be helped.

Soo Lin's death could not have been prevented. Zhīzhū would have found her eventually. And Quinn would not have been there remotely to prevent it.

Something in the scene before her catches her attention and she blinks rapidly, bringing herself back into reality.

"Cigarette," she pronounces.

Sherlock paused in his flipping of pages to stare at the woman questioningly. "Pardon?"

She points to the book in his hands. "The first word on the fifteenth page. Cigarette."

"Oh." She gives him a weak smile before resorting back into her head. John looked up at the pair and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

By the time Quinn came out of her head, it was light out. Sherlock was still riffling around in crates and John long gone. She blinked rapidly and stared at Sherlock's back as he reached up onto a higher shelf. Sometime through the night, he'd shed his suit jacket and now only wore a purple oxford. "A book that everyone owns." His fingers landed on a dictionary, about to pull it down when Quinn stopped him.

"Add," she says her voice hoarse from nonuse. "The first entry on the fifteenth page."

Sherlock sighs and turns to her. "So she does respond. Is there anything else you want to add?"

"It is not any dictionary, thesaurus, or reference book that I have ever read, and I have read a lot in multiple languages. Nor is it any translation of the Bible."

He heaves another sigh and scruffs up his hair. John walked in at that moment.

"We need to get some air," Sherlock says suddenly. "We're going out tonight."

"Actually," John dissents "I've, uh, got a date."

"What?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"That's what I was suggesting."

"No it wasn't," John rebukes. "At least I hope not."

"Where are you taking her?" Quinn wonders.

"The cinema."

"Oh, dull," she speaks the same time as Sherlock.

John looked between the two. "That's the second time you've done that."

"We do not plan it, I assure you," Quinn tells.

Sherlock hands the other man a small slip of paper. "Why don't you try this? In London for one night only."

John gave a halfhearted dry chuckle. "Thanks but I don't come to you for dating advice."

"Just do not take her someplace as predictable as the cinema." Quinn pulls out her phone. Three missed calls and four new messages.

**Brunch?**

**Where are you?**

**Have tea with me? Wait, you don't like tea... Coffee then?**

**Annie-belle, I'm worried. Has something happened?**

Quinn sighed. "I will be back in time for that outing, Holmes. I just need clean up and make a call." She leaves the flat typing away on her mobile.

**On a case. Can't talk now. Tomorrow I'm yours. -Annie**


	9. Promiscuous Girl

**Yellow Dragon Circus**

"Hi, I have two tickets reserved for tonight," John stated as he and his date, Sarah, approached the window.

"And what's the name?" asks the Ticketmaster.

John reaches for his wallet answering "Uh, Holmes."

The young man behind the counter turns around and reaches for the appropriate envelope. "Actually, I have four in that name."

John looks at the envelope in confusion. "No, I don't think so. We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got one for myself and one for Anabeth."

John sighed heavily, and turned to look at the consulting detective as he walked towards them with the (whatever she is) on his left arm. Anabeth had an apologetic look on her face.

"I'm Sherlock," he says holding his hand out.

"Uh," Sarah took his hand, "hi."

"Hello," Sherlock expresses before leaving them alone.

Anabeth stays behind to apologize. "I am sorry about this. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't have any of it."

John shook his head. "I should've known he was going to do this. Pardon me, ladies."

Anabeth turned to watch him walk away. "I'm Anabeth, by the way," she tells turning back around.

"Sarah," the other woman answers.

Anabeth smiles. "Well, it's lovely to meet you, Sarah."

"Likewise."

A moment passes silently as they look over to the two conversing men.

"How long have you and Sherlock been together?" Sarah questions.

"Oh!" Anabeth gave a half snort half giggle kind of laugh. "Oh, we're not together. I've known him all of four days. I just moved into the flat beneath theirs. I came up for a cup of tea with John three days ago and left following Holmes on a case."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that-"

Anabeth waved her off. "Think of it as payback for crashing your date."

"What do you think they're talking about?"

She shrugged pulling her lips into a mischievous grin. "Let's find out, shall we?"

"-trying to get off with Sarah! Oh, hey," John says spying the two women climbing the stairs. "Ready?"

Anabeth giggled. "Awkward."

* * *

"You said circus," John whispers to Sherlock as the latter man looked about. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is... odd."

"Give me a moment and I'm sure I can come up with a statistic or fact about Chinese circuses," Anabeth tells the man.

"This is not their day job," Sherlock reminds the other two.

John rolls his eyes. "No, sorry, I forgot, they're not a circus, they're a gang of international smugglers."

"The Western term "circus" isn't at all accurate," Anabeth begins," when describing a quote-unquote Chinese Circus. The Western term implies the use of clowns and large animals, such as tigers, elephants, et cetera, whereas the "Chinese Circus" has none. It traditionally being mainly made of various acrobatic and contortionist acts as well as more dangerous acts, such as tightrope walking, fire breathing, escapology, and so forth.

"With that being said, the tern "variety act" is much more appropriate. Though the Yellow Dragon  _Circus_  sounds much more entertaining and mystic than the Yellow Dragon  _Variety Act_. What we see tonight will most likely be very traditional..." Anabeth glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered around to hear what she had to say. "Erm... sorry."

The sound of a finger drum draws their attention back to the circle of candles. The beat quickly escalates in tempo as a short Chinese woman in a red and gold silk robe and traditional headdress walked to the center. The woman raises her hand as the tempo plateaus before stopping altogether. She lowers her hand as a much larger drum is beat upon.

The small woman moves quick and graceful to the cloaked item in the ring and uncovers it. Beneath the shiny cloth lie a large dragon-shaped crossbow and a basket of feathered arrows. The woman lifts an arrow and places it in its designated slot on the bow after showing the crowd. She removes a feather from the headdress and drops it into the silver bowl attached to the crossbow. The arrow races from its starting point to crash into a large decorative wooden board on the other side of the circle. The majority of the crowd gasped at the sudden onslaught.

A man dressed as a classical Chinese warrior steps into the circle and to the board. Two other men place him in chains and lock him "tightly" to the board.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock breathed to his three companions.

"Mmm, Indeed," Anabeth agrees. "Crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

The men finish chaining up the warrior and step back into the shadows. A gong is struck somewhere, the sound of it causing Sarah to jump and clutch John. She quickly realizes what she's done and jumps back in embarrassment still holding onto his arm, giggling at her stupidity. Anabeth rolled her eyes,  _such an illogical reaction_ , she thinks.

The small woman draws a dagger from the basket and punctured a sand bag hanging above her.

"She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out," Sherlock explains, "Gradually the weight lowers into the bowl."

Anabeth's eyes trace the rope attached to the sandbag to the weight attached to the other end.

The warrior makes a lot of unnecessary moaning and struggles more than he needed, all for a good show of course, before pulling out his hands one at a time. He finds the key and unlocks himself just it time to move out of the way of the arrow.

Sometime during the ridiculous acting, Sherlock gently grasped Anabeth's elbow and led her backstage. Out in the main room, the ringleader could be heard announcing the performance of the deadly Chinese bird spider. Anabeth murmured the phrase beneath her breath in Mandarin, deciding it sounded much better in its intended language.

"You speak Mandarin?" Sherlock questions as he eyes a warrior costume.

Anabeth shrugs. "I speak a lot of languages. And technically English is my second."

He looks at her, a look of intrigue masking his face. He has no time to comment as the woman from earlier enters and they dive into the costume rack. The woman checks her phone as Sherlock peers over the rack. He hits a few of the costumes, their hangers clanking together. The woman pauses glancing their way as the two spies duck down so as not to be seen. The woman leaves a moment later, the door slamming behind her.

Sherlock turns his head as he waits just another moment and spots a black bag full of spray paint. The very same spray paint used to make the code. He picks a can up and studies it before giving a little smirk.

"Oh dear," he says before shrugging back through the clothes. He goes to a vanity and sprays a single line of paint across the mirror. He glances at the warrior costume behind them through the mirror just in time to see him raise his sword to hit Anabeth in the head with it. Anabeth was staring off into space, her face bare and expressionless.

He shouts her name as he goes to deflect the hit. Anabeth was shoved out of the way and onto the ground, the skirt of her dress getting caught on something and tearing her skirt. The sound stopped her. Looking down at the aftermath, she winced. It wasn't a major tear, still the thought of it was enough to bring tears to anybody's eyes.

"This is a six thousand dollar Oscar de la Renta original, and you two idiots caused me to rip it." She slips her heels off and glances up right as Sherlock is kicked off the stage. His attacker jumps off with some kind of flip.

John comes running towards the man and shoves him into the stage. The man quickly throws John away and Anabeth takes that as her cue to jump down and put her ten years in the Marines to good use. She holds her own, managing to land a few bruising hits on him. But by that time, Sarah had decided to come to the rescue with a pipe from somewhere and hit the man over the head a couple of times.

Sherlock finally manages to catch his breath and sits up to pull off the mans shoe to reveal the Black Lotus tattoo.

Tossing the shoe away, he stands up and goes to pull Sarah along before thinking better of it.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go."

"I don't think I want to go anywhere with you," Anabeth snapped. "You ripped my dress."

* * *

**Scotland Yard**

"I sent a couple of cars," Dimmick says. "The old hall is totally deserted."

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus," Sherlock explains. "That tattoo that we saw on the two bodies, the mark of the Tong."

"Van Coon and Lukis were part of a smuggling ring," Quinn snaps. "One of them stole something whilst in China, something valuable, and now they want it back."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back."

Dimmick glares at them. "Get what back?"

"Whatever it is that was stolen," Quinn breathes.

"So, you don't know?"

Quinn's eyes flutter closed and she draws a deep breath.

"Mr. Holmes," Dimmick say sharply. "I've done everything you asked. Lestrade; he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it. Other than a massive bill for overtime."

"Oh, please," Quinn whispers.

"And you Miss Ryder. Not exactly the cleanest woman in London."

Quinn shrugged. "Never said I was. I know I have a bit of a rap sheet. I have always been a bit of a promiscuous girl."

"Busted for prostitution, breaking and entering, and possession of a controlled substance twice. And that's in London the past six months alone. Shall we go back farther? I'm sure we can find some kind of outstanding warrant."

She gave him a disdainful smile. "I am pretty positive you wouldn't. There are all of six things I have been arrested for, four of which you already shed light onto, the other two involve me and a group of kids breaking into our high school and some defacing of public property. Everything else has been expunged. I know some people pretty high up in the food chain."

She turned and limped away her ankle suddenly in massive pain.

"I thought you said you weren't a call girl," Sherlock says catching up to her.

"I am not. I was trying to convince a friend of a friend who saved my life once to leave that particular line of business. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"While you stayed in it?"

She glances up at him. "I'm starting to think that you have no idea what I do for a living."

He ignores her. Yep, she hit a nerve. "And what of the rest of it?"

She shrugged. "Misunderstanding. Except for the B&E and defacing in America. That I actually did. And I would do it again given the choice... It was fun."

That caught him off guard and he paused, watching her walk ahead of him, a sway in her hips.


	10. Too Cold For Angels To Fly

**221B Baker Street**

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John says as he pushes into the flat and pulls his overcoat off.

Sherlock shook his head, glaring at all the evidence and books filling the small sitting room as he too stripped himself of his outerwear. "No. They won't leave without what they came for."

Quinn stalked around them, her movements suddenly a militaristic as John's. "We need to find their hideout. Rendezvous. Somewhere in this message," she brushed her now well-worn manicure of the cypher from the tracks. "Alfie would have known. Oh, what is the damn key?!" She spun on the balls of her feet and started riffling through the books.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," Sarah says suddenly.

"Yes, it'd be better for-"

"If you do not mind-"

"No, no, no, no, it's fine.-"

"-if you left now." Sherlock gives her a brief uncommitted smile.

"He's kidding," John rebukes.

Quinn glanced between the two men and shook her head. "No, he was not. Do not lie to the woman." She gave Sarah a once over before continuing her riffling. "Sarah, you do seem like a nice woman. Stay if you would like. I can work around you. John, you best spend some time with her."

"Is it just me or is anyone else starving?" Sarah asked.

"Ooh, god," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

"Right," John mutters as he goes to the kitchen to look for something to snack on.

Quietness settles between the remaining three. Sherlock takes his seat at the table between the windows to continue his work on the cypher.

"So this is what you do for a living?" Sarah questions the detective as she takes in the plethora of papers covering the mirror. "You- you two and John? You solve puzzles."

"Consulting Detective," he snapped peeved.

Quinn frowned. "And no. I only live in the flat below." A clank in the kitchen draws Quinn's attention from Sarah to her date. Her frown deepens before she swiftly but silently walks out of the flat and to hers. She returned five minutes later with a serving tray (borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, hers were hidden in a box somewhere) with a picture, plate, and three glasses, one of which she took after she set the tray down. John looked over just in time to see her do this.

"Anabeth you are a saint."

Anabeth shrugged. "I couldn't stand to see your date go any farther to the dumps. It's nothing much, just homemade shortbread cookies and gingersnaps and half-n-half, um sweet tea and lemonade. But I'll warn you I am from the Southern States, so everything's really sweet and really fattening. To say we enjoy our butter is a bit of an understatement." She pours herself a glass before joining Sherlock and Sarah.

"And each pair of numbers is a word?" Anabeth hears Sarah ask.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock wonders.

"Well, two words have already been translated. Here." Setting the evidence bag containing the paper on the table, she points to the faint writing of a ballpoint pen.

"John. John!" Sherlock exclaims excitedly as he tears the paper out of the bag. "John look at this. She started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it."

"Frankly, I was more worried about protecting my asset."

Sherlock spared Anabeth a passing glance. "NINE... MILL..."

"Nine millions?" John asks.

Anabeth glances at the paper. "Nine million quid for what?" She gives a secret smile at her use of slang. Alfie would have been proud. The smile's gone as soon as it came and she's dashing down to her flat and to the stack of book on her mantle. It was easy enough to spot the book, the white and blue cover sticking out against the dark leather covers of her classic works.

She sprinted up the stairs, into the hall just in time to see Sherlock bound out the door. "Holmes!" She shouts, racing down the sidewalk. The pacing man pauses. "It's the  _London A-Z_. A book that everyone would own. Easy enough to your hands on a copy. In fact, my Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World gave it to me whilst still in America. As a gag gift of course. It's her way of teasing me about how I got us lost in the woods once when we were younger. Any time I go to a new place, she gets me something akin to a map or a gui-"

Sherlock grabs hold of her upper arms and gives a slight shake. "Rambling," was all he said.

"Sorry. Here," she hands him the book. "Page fifteen, entry one. Deadman. Zhīzhū was threatening them. Nine mill for jade pin dragon den black tramway. The cypher. That's what it says. However I have no idea what that means, or rather where it means."

"Has anyone told you, you are very annoying?"

"And yet you've drug me along for the past three days."

"Come on."

* * *

"John! John! I've got i- Ow! What was that for?"

Anabeth glared at the detective. "I, me, Anabeth, I got it before you even figured it out."

"Doesn't matter. It was the London A-Z," Sherlock explains as he bounds in to the sitting room. He pauses though. The bright yellow cypher covered the windows.

"Ah, hell," Anabeth breathes.

Sherlock pulls a map of London from his bookshelf and unfurls it. "Tramway." He runs his finger across the paper before tapping it. "Found you."

* * *

Since finding John and Sarah missing and the cypher in their place, Quinn's adrenaline had kicked in, her training coming to the forefront of her mind. She hadn't parted with her handgun since Soo Lin's murder, she simply kept it strapped to her thigh. Now as she approached the entrance to the tunnel (in her ruined Oscar de la Renta, something she was going to insist on Sherlock replacing) she felt the comforting weight of it in her hand.

"Do not fire that in here," Holmes warns. "If you miss, it'll ricochet."

Quinn looks him in the eye as best she can in the strange lighting. "Then I will not miss."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John shouts exasperated.

"I don't believe you!" It was the Ringleader lady from the circus.

"You should, you know," Sherlock calls out to them. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him."

The short Chinese woman turned around aiming her weapon to wear the two intruders stood just previously.

"How would you describe me, John?"

"Fishing for compliments, Holmes?"

Sherlock ignores her as he picks up a pipe lying on the ground. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Late," John murmurs.

"That's a semiautomatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second."

"Well?" the woman asked.

"Well," Sherlock jumps from his hiding spot and whacks a henchman with his pipe.

"Professor Plum in the conservatory with the lead pipe," Quinn quips.

Her companion continues as if she hadn't spoken. He was good at that. "The radius curvature of these wall is nearly four meters, if you miss the bullet could ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you."

Quinn's impatience gets the best of her and she makes to kick over a fire drum. Sherlock takes the initiative to untie Sarah. It's not three seconds before he is dragged back by a scarf around his neck. The Chinese and their scarves. As he struggled with Zhīzhū, Quinn fought off another assassin, the adrenaline pulsing through her veins, giving her enough of an artificial high to coerce that same rare half-snort-half-giggle sort of laugh from her lips.

The sounds of the crossbow firing and a fallen comrade distracts the assassin long enough for Quinn to receive the upper hand and hit the man in the head with the butt of her pistol. As she catches her breath she glances at John who was still tied to the chair they found him in, only now he was lying on the ground. "I told you I could do more than just run in heels."

John gave a quick nod and turned his attentions to Sarah. "Don't worry," he says to the hyperventilating woman. "Next date won't be like this."

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

"So nine mill-"

"Million."

"Million, yes. Nine million for jade pin dragon den black tramway."

"An instruction for all their London agents," Quinn explains to John as she sips on her glass of cocoa.

"A message," Sherlock continues. "What they were trying to reclaim."

"A jade pin," John clarifies.

"Yes," Quinn agrees. "Worth nine million pounds. It was to be brought to the tramway; their London hideout."

"Hang on." John glances up at the two standing up. "A hair pin worth nine million pounds?"

"Apparently," Sherlock replies. He sips his coffee.

"Why so much?"

"Depends on who owned it first."

John gives the suggestion some thought and nods. "So who stole it?"

"Eddy Van Coon," Sherlock tells.

"How did you figure that? Even the killer didn't know that."

"The soap," Sherlock and Quinn say together.

"The soap in Van Coon's apartment matches the same luxury brand as the hand lotion on his secretary's desk..." the woman informs further, though the last part was whispered as her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket.

**How good of a shot are you?**

Quinn frowned at the random question.

**I was the best sniper in my platoon. -Annie**

**Perfect. I need you to do me a favor tonight.**

**Who? -Annie**

**A short Chinese woman that knows too much.**

Quinn's jaw was clenched. She should have known he was behind this.

**Your will is my command. -Anniexx**

"Everything alright?" John asks.

"Hmm?" Quinn looks up. "Oh yes, fine. It seems, although, that even on my days off I cannot keep from working. Speaking of," she turns to the detective, "have you figured it out yet, Holmes? What I do for a living?"

Sherlock smirks. "John, meet Anabeth Ryder. Part time burlesque dancer, full time government agent."

"So you work for Mycroft?" John asks.

Quinn shrugs. "Yes and no. While I am currently under his command, and was relocated to here to watch over the both of you by him, I am first and foremost a CIA agent and I will have to report back to Langley about Soo Lin's death." She gave an impressed smile to Sherlock, one that didn't reach her eyes. "I am impressed though. For a moment I thought I had you stumped. I was almost disappointed. Burlesque dancer I am indeed."

**Can I see you tonight? -Anniexx**

**We'll both be busy. I thought you were smarter than this.**

**I am. I meant afterwords. I just got done with a case and I want you. -Anniexx  
Want to see you** -Annie**

**Stop by after the job's done.**

**Love you! -Anniexx**

Quinn leaves the two men who'd decided to carry on the conversation without her, and resorts to her apartment.

* * *

**Office building across from General Shan's hotel**

Quinn takes a deep breath. She was trained for this, to neutralize the enemy with minimal effort. Though, at this point in time she wasn't quite sure who that was.

Her job was simple. Wait for the text and pull the trigger once received. Simple in theory. It was the wave of guilt that came over her as she watched the body fall, slumped over into a victim of something that was so much bigger than her. Bigger than all of them.

Some time within the last six months, something had gone wrong. Not on her end, obviously not, she was too careful. No it wasn't her.

Her phone buzzed beside her.

**It's time.**

She takes another breath to center herself, corrects her aim, and fires.


	11. Harden My Heart

**A Small Townhouse Somewhere in London**

"You know," Anabeth snuggles into the warm body next to her, "I've missed you. A lot."

The body's indifferent. He always was, even before when they were younger.

"I was ready. We were ready... and then you left. Just walked right out of the ceremony. Leaving me embarrassed and alone, and I never saw you again. Why would you do that?"

She doesn't receive an answer, she doesn't expect one either. It's a moment before she heaves a sigh and slips out of the bed taking the loose sheet with her.

"Annie-belle? Where are you going?" he calls to her.

She sighs and shakes her head. " _Annie-belle_? Do I look like that same naive sixteen-year-old to you? Is that why you treat me like this? Like I'm just toy that you can play with when you're bored?"

"Anabeth, I-"

"Oh please, just don't. I have... I have to go. I'm gonna be late."

* * *

She was a sophomore when she first met him. Only fifteen. It had been opening night of her school production of  _Annie._  The Meet and Greet was nearly over. She'd just finished talking to (she hoped) the last group of people and was ready to slip backstage to help clean up. There was a voice though that'd called out to her, caused her to stop.

"You're a hard girl to talk to."

His voice was accented heavily. Irish, if she had to guess. She was probably wrong.

"Tends to happened when you come from the family I do," Anabeth replied. "Everyone wants to say they know one of us."

He smiled. His eyes a warm brown, so friendly and inviting, coupled with the mischievous million watt grin, she liked him from the start. "You were spectacular up there."

She blushed deeply and looked away. "Thanks."

"No problem."

She felt his eyes on her face, unmoving. "What?" she finally managed to ask.

"You're much prettier without the wig. Ginger doesn't suit you as well."

"Oh," she gave a half-snort-half-giggle sort of laugh. "Thanks, I guess."

"And you shouldn't wear eye shadow; it takes away from the color in your eyes."

"Oh, um..." she shifted a bit nervously, unsure whether to be creeped out or flattered.

"Sorry... you were leaving before. I should probably let you go, one condition though."

Anabeth's brow raised. "What's that?"

"A date, with me. Saturday?"

"I don't even know your name."

"Jim Moriarty."

"Well, Jim Moriarty. I might have to take you up on that."

She turns around and continues to the double doors that led backstage. "Oh," she pauses and glances back. "And I'm Christabella Quinn. But everyone calls me Anabeth."

"I know," Jim tells her holding up his program. "See you tomorrow ' _Annie_ '."

She smiled. "Bye, Jim." The door shut softly behind her.

* * *

He came every night for the week the play ran. With flowers every time. At first it was roses, admittedly her least favorite flower, but she found him zeroing in on color and type until the night of the final show where he showed up with a large pink vase of purple dendrobium orchids. Her very favorite. She was putty in his hands from there on out.

Their date was simple, a trip to the theater to watch a local production of  _The Phantom of the Opera_.

"It's nice watching the stage instead of performing for once."

Jim smiles. "After a week of brilliant performances like yours, I would expect so."

Anabeth blushes. "Well, I blame that on myself. The week of performances is in response to the response I got last year as Christine in our production of the  _Phantom of the Opera_. Nobody realized just how powerful my voice was until opening night. The last two performances were full houses. And I was only a freshman."

"Sing something for me," he tells her.

She smiles at him. "You've heard me sing, for a week."

He chuckled. "I've heard you sing "It's a Hard-Knock Life". Sing something for the  _Phantom_. Please."

Anabeth looks at him before giving a fake sigh. "Well since you said please...  _In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came_ ," her voice was soft, almost like she was frightened she'd fail, " _that voice which calls to me, and speaks my name. And do I dream again? For now I find the phantom of the opera is there inside my mind._ " By the time she finished, she managed to find strength within herself to show him the truth behind the whispers of her he'd heard about her for the past week.

He hated to hear her stop and before he could tell himself otherwise, Jim heard his voice pick up Erik's part. The smile that Anabeth gave him at that moment kept him from leaving her.

He did everything he could think of for the next year they dated to bring back that smile. The smile she gave when she was truly taken by surprise by something that he did.

She gave it all of thrice. Their first date, Christmas when he gave her his mother's locket, and on a trip to London during spring break of her Junior year. He took her to Her Majesty's Theater, where they watched the Phantom, after which he pulled her backstage to meet the cast. He had proposed to her then too, with a replica of Princess Diana's ring. The perfect cliché for his Princess Annie-belle.

* * *

**221C Baker Street**

Anabeth's fingers ran over the edges of the photo. They'd been the "It" couple since they met. Something happened, something she cared not relive, that caused him to leave her at the alter that June. She hadn't seen him since.

When her father had handed her the file on him, and Mycroft with that creepy all-knowing smile, she wanted to prove herself. She was always proving herself, but this was different. It was a chance to prove that Moriarty was not the cause of her emotionless state of mind. But with every passing meeting; no matter the briefness of it, with every buzzing text, with every draining phone call, she found it harder and harder to walk away sober.

He brought out the worse in her, always had. It's a natural defense, forgetting memories that cause you pain, emotional or physical. She thought she knew, that she remembered. She was wrong. She was only remembering now.

A soft knock on her door draws her attention away and she's up the stairs to open the door for her guest. The woman standing on the other side of the doorway is tall with frizzy orange hair attempting to be tamed by a black top hat and green eyes hidden behind black nerd glasses. Anabeth smirked.

"You look like a hipster."

Hannah shrugged. "It was a perm gone wrong."

"Obviously. You look like the Hatter." Anabeth moved to the side to let her Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World (a self-given title) in.

"The only reason I'm keeping it."

Anabeth chuckled. It was refreshing to hear another American accent, though if she spent any more time here, Hannah'd be British sounding all the same. "So whatcha doing here Batsy?"

Hannah leaned against the back of the couch that was placed haphazardly in the center of the sitting room. "I have come to declare that Friday nights are now officially Girls' Nights and refuse to let you wallow in... this poor excuse for a flat by yourself. Go get dressed, we're going out."

Anabeth rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Alright Miss Bossy Pants. I'm already dressed."

"No, as far as I am concerned, you're naked. I will not be seen with you in that," she raked over the skirt and blouse combo. "It's jeans and a tee or nothing at all, and as I have no clothes for you..."

Anabeth rolled her eyes again.

"Come on, Harls, when was the last time you went out and had fun."

"The past three days."

"With a girl friend?"

"Two weeks ago, we had Girls' Night then."

"Exactly," Hannah snapped. "You spend too much time working. Spook or not, I will not allow you to waste away like some pathetic excuse for a human." Hannah frowned as her friends shoulders slumped knowing there was no point in arguing. "You okay Anabeth? I'm getting that depressed mood from you again. Is something wrong?"

Anabeth shook her head. "Just tired."

"You know I'm here for you right? Anything you need, I got you. Even if it means tracking down He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and shoving him off a tall building."

"That's why I love you, Wayne."

"Anytime, Quinn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie. I might be hated for this chapter.


	12. When Did You Decide?

**221B Baker Street**

Hannah peered out into the sitting room from where she sat. The mid-morning sun peeked through the windows casting antic shadows across the room.

"Is this a usual thing? Breaking into the apartment above yours?"

Anabeth shrugged. "I have only lived here for roundabout two months. Besides, their fridge is bigger than mine."

Hannah shot her friend a death glare. "Full of body parts."

Anabeth rolled her eyes and pressed the lever down on the toaster. "In my defense, they were not there yesterday."

Hannah's greenish eyes lazed on Anabeth's stiff figure. It was hard these days to determine the difference between the Anabeth that tries to lock her feelings away and the one that was molded by the Corps. "Are you alright?"

A chair was pulled out across from the visitor. "Now, what makes you ask this time?"

Hannah shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe it's just the fact that it's been six months since you've been stateside and before that you were benched because of what happened in Brussels. You been working nonstop on this file; there isn't a check-in were the Company doesn't get any information. I guess I'm just worried you're overworking yourself. You've reverted back to Vulcan, and you're still undercover. It's starting to get, well, scary almost."

Quinn rolls her eyes again. "Hannah. I am fine. Do not worry over me."

"See, there you go. Anabeth Ryder would've said "Batsy, I'm fine. Don't worry." Something's bugging you."

"But I am not Anabeth Ryder. I am Anabeth Quinn."

"But you're undercover. You're supposed to act like Anabeth Ryder, the burlesque dancer who's pinning for her ex-fiance and gets laid like a hooker every night. You're supposed to  _feel_ , you're supposed to be  _human._  Just pretend, will ya? For me? Pretend that you never met the likes of that bastard, pretend that your childhood wasn't lived in shadow of your parents! It's been sixteen-"

"I am not thirty-two, Wayne. I am only thirty, it has been fourteen years."

"Same difference."

"Look, Hannah, I love you. You know I do. But I do not feel like talking about this right now. Not with either denizens of this flat within hearing range."

"You never want to talk about it."

"Well, maybe there is a good reason for it."

"Oh?" Hannah raised a perfectly styled brow. "And what is that?"

"You would not understand."

"Try me."

Anabeth opened her mouth and shut it, looking like a fish. She racked her brain for anything that remotely made sense  _coming from Anabeth_. But she couldn't. She really should have something by now. This isn't the first time this has happened. Hannah calls her out more often than not when they're on the same continent, let alone in the same room.

"Let me see your arm."

It catches Quinn off guard as she's still searching for an answer. "What? Why?"

"Let me see your arm."

Hesitantly, Quinn pulls both sleeves of her black robe up and holds out her arms, palm-side up, for Hannah's investigative gaze. The normally-black-haired girl zeros in on the round patch stuck in the crevice of her left elbow. It's ripped off instantly making Anabeth wince and shout out a loud "OW!"

"Just checking."

A light clicks on in Quinn's mind. "Ah." Her eyes close briefly. "Of course." Her now snide gaze levels with the green one across from her. "It is impossible to keep a smoking habit in London these days. Hence the patch. But I still can't believe you thought I would..."

Behind her the toaster pops and she jumps up immediately, popping open the jar of her grandmother's raspberry preserves, the one thing she enjoyed about having to move to Georgia.

"You're going to avoid me now aren't you? That's just great. Doesn't matter. I have things to do today. I have a meeting with Mycroft about something in Korea or another... We still have to finish this conversation Harls. I won't forget."

"If you are still in England by the time I get off work today, then maybe we will finish the conversation. But not until then."

"Oh I will be, you don't have to worry about that. We still have a movie marathon scheduled. And I'm bringing a special guest."

By the time Quinn turned back around with a piece of toast halfway to her mouth Hannah was gone. In her place, however, was Sherlock Holmes with quite a sullied look on his face.

"She has got to stop that."

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"Hannah. Was she not just- nevermind," she says to the inquisitive look he gave her.

"You're in my kitchen."

"And now I'm leaving your kitchen, with my toast and my preserves." She passes by the man in nothing but a sheet, her robe blowing open ever so slightly. "See you around."

* * *

**Text Messages Between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder**

Where are you? JW

**Late night. Stayed with a co-worker. AR**

Have you seen the news? JW

**Considering your text woke me up, no. AR**

There's been an explosion on Baker St. Across the street from the flat. JW

**What?! Everyone alright? AR**

I don't know. JW

Just left Sarah's. JW

**I'll meet you there. AR**

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John rushes up the stairs half expecting, well he's not sure what. Anabeth, maybe Mrs. Hudson, fussing over the savant, Sherlock himself still in his dressing gown from the night before certainly. The sight that greets him is confounding, just a little anyways.

Sherlock is sitting in his own chair, plucking his violin; Mycroft is resting in John's own chair, clutching his umbrella; and Anabeth is standing in the middle of the room, crossing her arms. They each spare him a glance.

"John," Sherlock and Anabeth say in greeting.

"I saw it on the telly. You okay?" he wonders.

Sherlock glances around a tad confused.

"What? Oh! Yeah. Fine," he replies. "Gas leak, apparently." He looks pointedly at his brother. "I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft asks. John wanders over to the covered window, surveying the damage.

"Stuff I've got on is just too big," Sherlock elaborates. "I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?" Sherlock questions of his brother in attempt to annoy him.

Quinn wanders over to the couch with a yawn and lies down on her back, fingers laced together and resting on her ample chest, eyes closed.

"Fine," the brother replies. "Perhaps you could get through to him John."

John glances over from the mess of broken glass and rubbish. "Hmm? What?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?"

"No no no no no no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections–" John and Sherlock glance over to him as he pauses. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?"

"Is that what your meeting with Hannah was about?" Anabeth pipes up, her voice half sleepy.

Mycroft ignores the inquiry. "Besides a case like this requires," he winces, "leg work."

Sherlock plucks the violin again. "And Anabeth can't do this?"

"I could," the person in question says as she sits up properly. "However, after six months of being in London, I finally have an in."

"You found an in weeks ago," he complains. "You're already sleeping with your mark."

"I was sleeping with him before he was my mark." She stands and leaves the room. Sherlock watches her as she does, analyzing her every move.

* * *

**Texts between Sherlock Holmes and Anabeth Quinn**

I have a case. SH

**Ooo. Good for you. AR**

Sarcasm is not flattering on you. SH

**I would have to be flattering in the first place. AR**

Are you going to join? SH

Could be dangerous. SH

**With you, everything is dangerous. AR**

Take that as a no then. Breaking into your flat. SH

**Why the hell are you breaking into my flat? AR**

It's for the case. SH

**Oh? Breaking into my flat is okay as long as it is for a case? AR**

**Mrs. Hudson has a key. AR**

Too late. SH

You break into my flat all the time. SH

**It does not count. There is no breaking involved. I simply walk up the stairs. AR**

And I simply picked the lock and walked down the stairs. SH

Love what you've done with the place. SH

**Yeah... the whole drab, half ruined basement look wasn't me. AR**

Meet me at Bart's when you're finished. SH

**I told you I am busy. AR**

**You are not going to reply, are you? AR**

**Fine. See you there. AR**


	13. Forgive and Forget

**St. Bart's Hospital**

"This hospital's full of people dying,  _doctor_. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside? See what good it does then"

Anabeth rolls her eyes from her spot in front of the computer screen, where she's been sitting for the last hour or so. She hadn't met with them immediately, choosing to go to her hair appointment first, so now in addition to her straight, high pony tail, she also had a full fringe of bangs covering her forehead, and was put in charge of watching the program for the mass spectrometer run through results.

"Just because you or I don't, doesn't mean others don't have feelings Holmes."

He doesn't answer. Just pushes Anabeth out of the way as the computer alerts them to a result.

"Any luck?" Miss Hooper says as she cheerfully bursts through the doors. She bounces past Anabeth to stand between her and Sherlock.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't..."

Anabeth freezes at the voice and dares not turn. Despite closing her eyes tightly, she still knows Sherlock is eying her curious.

"Jim! Hi! Come in! Come in," Molly repeats. Once he's standing behind her, she motions to her other guests. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," Jim says like he recognizes the name from one of many stories told to him.

She looks to John. "And uhh, sorry..."

"John Watson, hi."

Molly smiles apologetically and spins around like she's forgotten something. "And Anabeth Ryder."

Anabeth has never been more happy for Mycroft's persistence as she is then. She doesn't even glance from her phone with her short, southern "Heya."

"Hi," Jim says noncommittal. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

Anabeth looks up and squints at her lover.

"Jim works in IT upstairs," Molly tells the group. "That's how we met. Office romance." She says it with a certain feel of "Ha! I don't need to love you!"

Anabeth would have filed it a way for later, but she's too distracted by the way Sherlock sneaks a glance at Jim.

"Gay," he mumbles.

Molly stops mid giggle. "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing," Sherlock lies, shaking his head. "Um, hey."

"Hi," Jim breathes. He swings his hand slightly in a faux nervous tick and knocks something to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up and lay it back in it's original spot. "Well, I best be off. I'll see you tonight at the Fox?" he asks of Molly. "At six-ish?"

Molly nods eagerly. And that she does store for later.

"Bye, it was nice to meet you." Although his hand is at the top of Molly's back, Jim's looking at Sherlock almost longingly. Anabeth can taste blood, as it fills her mouth from where she's bitten her tongue.

"You too," John says after an awkward moment.

He smiles halfheartedly. He leaves then, shooting Anabeth a cursory glance. Their gaze locks briefly before he's behind her and gone.

"What do you mean gay?" Molly asks as soon as the door is shut. "We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half," she nearly growls.

"Ehr, three."

"He's not gay," and this time she does growl. "Why do you have to spoil- He's not."

"With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a little product in his hair?" John asks. "I put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair, there's a difference. No, no-"

"Holmes," Anabeth snaps, cutting him off. She stands and places a reassuring hand on Molly's arm. "Molly, sweetheart, I hate to break it to you but Holmes is right. Now I could list all the reasons as to why I know he is, and Holmes could as well, albeit more harshly, but the main reason, the biggest one, he left his number for Holmes beneath that dish."

"What?" Molly questions, tears nearly falling from her eyes.

Sherlock pulls the small piece of paper from it's hiding spot. "I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself a bit of pain."

Heartbroken and pissed off, Molly stomps from the room.

"Charming." John says sarcastically. "Well done."

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder?" Anabeth gapes. "Kinder? Holmes, you're lucky I was here, since John is so privy to watch your deductions. At least Molly will still speak to you now."

Sherlock sighs and tosses the paper away. He nods for her and John to both look at the shoes. "Go on then. Hmm? You know what I do. Off you go."

John glances at his watch. "Haha no."

"Go on."

"I'm not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and dissimulate-"

"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me." He glances over at his flatmate. "Really."

John stares back in challenge before giving in and picking up the shoe. "They're just a pair of shoes, trainers."

"Good."

"Um, they're in good nick. I'd say they were fairly new, except the soles are well warn, so the owner must've had them for a while. Very eighties, probably one of those retro designs."

"You're in sparkling form. What else?"

"Well, they're quite big, so a man's."

"But..?"

John turns the shoe over a couple of times and glances in the other one. "But there's traces of a name inside. In felt tip. Adults don't write their name inside shoes, so these belong to a kid."

"Excellent," Sherlock compliments. "What else?"

"Uhh, I dunno. That's it."

"That's it?

John nods. "How did I do?"

"Well, John. Really well," Sherlock repeats. "You missed almost everything of importance. But, um, good. Anabeth? Have a go."

The black haired girl smiles and takes the shoe from John. "The owner loved them, whitened them when they became discolored. Changed the laces multiple times. I want to say five? No, only four. He suffered from eczema, the owner did; there is traces of skin where his fingers came into contact." She flips the shoe upside down and studies the bottom close up. "Well-worn sole on the inside, weak arches; not unlike me as a child. British made, twenty years old."

"Twenty?" John wonders.

"They're not retro," Sherlock says, pulling up a photo on his phone. "They're original. Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989."

"But there's still mud on them, they look new," argues John.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the bottom."

Anabeth's phone vibrates. "Mass spect says it's from Sussex with a touch of London," she tells as she reads the text. "Excuse me boys. I must go."

* * *

**Texts between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder**

You ran off quite fast. Everything alright? JW

**I'm all right. No worries. AR**

You haven't been around much. Are you sure? JW

**I was only around because of the case, John. If you remember I never was beforehand. AR**

Sorry. You just seem off lately. JW

**I assure you I'm fine. AR**

Good. JW

Sherlock had a break through on the case. JW

**Good for him. I need to concentrate. L8r. AW**

* * *

**Texts Between Sherlock Holmes and Anabeth Quinn**

Carl Powers (1976-1989) murdered by botulinum toxin. SH

**What? AR**

The case. The trainers. It all led to Carl Powers. SH

**A kid that was murdered by botox? AR**

Easy enough to slip it in his medicine. Applies the cream, a few hours later arrives in London and dies in the pool. Undetectable because no one would ever look

for it. SH

**No one except you. AR**

* * *

Another puzzle. SH

**I have a feeling you're enjoying this too much. AR**

Janus Cars. 2 hours. SH

**Busy. AR**

It'll only take 15. SH

**What did you do before you met me? Honestly, I am not a doll to be carried around. AR**

* * *

Ian Mumford faked his own death. SH

**What part of busy do you not understand? AR**

He's living in Columbia now. Thanks to Janus Cars. SH

* * *

**Your brother will not stop texting me. AR**

What do you want me to do? He's bored. SH

**Get him to stop. AR**

* * *

Connie Prince is the next puzzle. SH

Twelve hours to solve it. SH

Could use your help. SH

* * *

Time was just cut by five hours. SH

**The hell am I supposed to do about that? AR**

Could use your opinion. SH

**Holy fuck. BUSY! AR**

* * *

**The explosion. That was you, was it not? AR**

Solved the case with hours to spare. The woman started to tell me about him. SH

* * *

**Texts between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder**

Sherlock's being a bloody wanker. JW

**And you just now noticed. Do not pull me into your domestic disputes. AR**

* * *

**Texts between Sherlock Holmes and Anabeth Quinn**

The painting's a fake. SH

**Yes, yes it is. AR**

**A paining known to have been destroyed ages ago suddenly appears. Obviously it's forged. AR**

But how? SH

**I suppose it's a bad time to not know the solar system. AR**

What do you mean? SH

* * *

Van Buren Supernova. SH

**Very good, Holmes. AR**

How did you know? SH

**I have my sources. AR**

* * *

What do you know of a man named Moriarty? SH

**Just whispers. AR**

**Keep an eye on your friends AR**

What? SH

Why? SH

Anabeth? SH

* * *

**The Pool**

In the empty pool area, doors echo loudly. Footsteps too. And voices.

"Brought you a little getting to know you present. Oh, it's what it's all been for isn't it? All your little puzzles making me dance. All to distract me from this."

Some doors are louder than others. Footsteps lost in the echo. But not the voices.

"Evening. This is a turn up, isn't Sherlock?"

"John? What the hell?"

"Bet you never saw this coming. What... would you like me... to make him say... next?"

Desperately slow footsteps are the loudest when you're being hunted.

"Gotlogeer. Gotlogeer. Gotlogeer."

"Stop it."

"Nice touch this, the pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him... I can stop John Watson, too... stop his heart."

"Who are you?"

Some doors are silent.

"I gave you my number."


	14. The Meaning Of A Tragedy

**The Pool**

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call." Jim walks slowly into the pool room. "Is that a British Army Branning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both," Sherlock says as he raises his weapon.

"Jim Moriarty," the criminal says in greeting. "Hi!" He takes a few steps. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Huh. I really make such a fleeting impression? Although, I suppose that was rather the point."

Sherlock corrects his stance but otherwise remains silent.

"Oh, don't be silly someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. Miss Quinn doesn't mind though." Jim smiles at the slight confusion that passes over Sherlock's face briefly. "Oh, did my lovely assistant not tell you? Shame." He walks closer to John and Sherlock. "I've given you a glimpse Sherlock, a teensy glimpse at what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see." His face picks up like he suddenly realized something. "Like you."

"'Dear Jim,'" Sherlock begins, "'Please will you fix it for me. To get rid of my lover's nasty sister.' 'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America.'"

"Just so."

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant."

Jim squeezes his eyes shut briefly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

Sherlock flicks the safety off and cocks the gun. "I did."

"You've come the closest. No you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

Jim shrugs over-exaggerated, "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock, daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning... my dear... back off. Although, I have loved this... this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay, did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock tells.

"That's what people  _DO!_ " Moriarty yells.

"I will stop you."

"No you won't."

Sherlock glances over to John. "You all right?"

Moriarty closes the distance between John and himself. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead," he says leaning over John's shoulder and nodding.

Sherlock holds the flash drive out. "Take it."

Jim pulls the plastic piece into his grasp and flips it over. "Ah, the missile plans." He smiles. "Boring. I could have gotten them anywhere," he tells tossing the small device into the pool.

Behind him John runs up and pulls the criminal into a choke hold. "Sherlock run!"

Moriarty laughs. "Good! Very good!"

"Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

"Oh, she's not my sniper," he snaps, his voice a little too high. "She's not  _my_  anything. Not anymore." He looks back to Sherlock. "He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. People do get so sentimental about their pets. And so touchingly loyal." He shifts he weight suddenly. "Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."

The laser from another rifle shows itself against the dark mop of hair against Sherlock's forehead.

"Gotcha!" Jim announces. "Westwood." He straightens his suit back out. "Do you know what happens, Sherlock, if you don't leave me alone, to you?"

"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock deadpans. "You're going to kill me."

"Kill you?" Jim rolls his eyes. "Oh don't be obvious, I'm going to kill you someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no." He shakes his head subtly. "If you don't stop prying, I will burn you." He glances down Sherlock's person like what he sees disgusts him. "I will burn the  _heart_  out of you."

"I have been widely informed that I don't have one." Sherlock's voice is softer than it has been, less confident.

"But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty shrugs and looks around. "Well, I better be off. It's so nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock breathes in deeply. "What if I was to shoot you now, right now?"

"Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty says halfheartedly as he puts on a faux look of shock. "Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long, Miss Quinn would see to that." His half smirk drops. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch... you... later..." Sherlock says as he watches the man leave.

"No you won't!" Jim shouts back.

When the door echos shut, Sherlock races towards John and starts tearing at the jacket he wears. "All right? Are you all right?" he interrogates as he yanks the jacket of the other man's shoulders and throws it to the other end of the pool.

"Yeah yeah yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine, Sherlock," John mumbles. "Sherlock!"

Said man rushes into the hallway Moriarty left through. John crouches against the wall, the adrenaline starting to wane away. Anabeth shoves through the doors previously entered by Sherlock, wearing a catsuit of all things.

"John!" she gasps, rushing over to the man's side. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine. Sherlock-"

The sound of another door opens and Sherlock walks back in, scratching his temple with the pistol.

"Are  _you_  okay?" Anabeth asks.

"Me?" Sherlock says, not pausing in his pacing. "Yeah, I'm fine. That, uh, thing you did," he says to John. "That you offered to do, erm, good."

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?"

"You ripping off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. People would talk."

"People already talk." Anabeth smirked. "Holmes ripped your clothes off?"

They shared a quick snort before Anabeth's eyes widened at the little red dot on John's chest. "Son of a bitch," she mumbles.

"Sorry boys. I am so changeable! It is a weakness with me."

Anabeth closes her eyes and groans.

"But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"Probably my answer has already crossed yours," Sherlock says turning around and aiming the gun at Moriarty.

"Holmes," Anabeth breathes softly as she watches the sights on the gun slowly move toward the jacket full of plastic explosives. "Don't." She un-holsters her own government issue from its place on her side and aims it at the criminal.

 _Staying Alive_  by the Bee Gees starts playing, echoing through the room.

"Honestly?" Anabeth asks.

"Mind if I get that?" Moriarty wonders.

Sherlock shrugs and waves the gun. "Oh no, please. You've got the rest of your life."

Jim pulls the phone from his pocket and unlocks it. "Hello?... Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" He glances up to Sherlock and Anabeth both and mouths the word "Sorry."

"You're fine," Sherlock mouths back.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" the consulting criminal shouts. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me I will find you and I will sskin you."

Sherlock and John exchange a glance. They both turn their noses up to view Anabeth's reaction, though her face is still stoic and trained on Moriarty.

"Wait." The phone is pulled away from Jim's ear and he slowly walks toward the threesome. He pauses right before he has to step over the jacket.

Anabeth's head tilts ever so slightly and she releases the safety. "Better offer?"

"No offer is as good as yours Annie-belle."

"They never are."

"I will be in touch," he breathes as he stalks away.

"I'll be waiting."

John breathes a sigh of relief when Moriarty leaves the room for the last time.

Sherlock drops his arm "Someone changed his mind. The question is who."


	15. I Won't Be Made A Fool Of

**221b Baker Street**

Anabeth slams a newspaper onto Sherlock's lap as she passes by into his kitchen. "I'm gone for a week and you boys make the paper. Hello, John," she says to the computer screen. "Who are you?" she asks of the obese man in John's chair. "Never mind, I don't care."

"Hello, Anabeth," John breathes.

"Pass me over," Sherlock snaps as if he's said it one too many times.

"Fine, but there's a mute button and I will use it," John warns.

Anabeth rolls her eyes and looks to the stranger. "You're the suspect?"

Sherlock sputters before the man could answer. "Up a bit! I'm not talking from down here."

John groans. "Fine!" He passes it to the other man. "Take it. Take it!"

"Having driven to an isolated a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?" Sherlock inquires.

"He's trying to be clever. He's overconfident," the inspector says.

Sherlock sighs. "Did you see him?"

"He's not exactly flowing with confidence," Anabeth states as she walks over to Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock scopes the girl out briefly. "You're not exactly flowing with confidence either."

"There's a sleazeball staring at my ass. Sorry if I'm keeping my robe closed." She chuckles deeply and leans down, brushing her lips against the detective's ear. "Besides," she breathes sultry, "you can't do your deduction thing when I'm scantily clad."

A shiver runs down Sherlock's spine. "In that case, why don't  _you_  tell him why he can't be the killer."

Anabeth gives a breathless laugh and slips her hand beneath the cream sheet he's covered with. "I'm a bit out of sorts myself."

The inspector clears his throat. "Save the intimacy for the bedroom please."

She laughs again, louder this time, and straightens. "He's obese, has the halitosis of a single man living alone-"

"Right sleeve of an internet porn addict," Sherlock interjects, "and the breathing of an untreated heart condition."

Anabeth nods, going along with it. "He couldn't keep eye contact when I spoke with him earlier, self-esteem issues."

"A tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy. And you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?"

The duo turns around to look at the so-called suspect. "No offense," they say together and turn back around.

"What did you say? Heart what?" the man asks desperately.

"Go to the stream," Sherlock says.

"What's in the stream?" the inspector asks.

"Go and see."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson calls as she walks through the door way followed by two men wearing suits. "You weren't answering your door bell."

"His bedroom's through the back get him some clothes," one man asked.

Anabeth's smiles apologetically. "We were a bit preoccupied, Mrs. Hudson."

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock wonders, not bothering to turn all the way around.

"Sorry Mr. Holmes, you're coming with us." He shuts the computer. "You as well Miss Ryder."

The other man comes back in with a suit for Sherlock and sets it on top of the laptop. Sherlock stares at the pile as if it's poisoned.

"Please Mr. Holmes, where you're going you'll want to be dressed," the man says.

Anabeth watches looks pass across Sherlock's face as he deduces the two men in a span of less than thirty seconds.

The detective smirks. "I know exactly where I'm going."

* * *

Footsteps alert Sherlock and Anabeth to John's arrival. Turning towards the man, they give a small grin. He holds his hands out as if to ask what's going on and Sherlock shrugs in response. With a sigh and one last look down the hall he just came from, he walks to the sofa and sits on the other side of Anabeth. He takes a glance at the clothing on the table and turns towards the couple taking in their attire, Anabeth in her black silk dressing gown and Sherlock in his sheet.

"Are either of you wearing any pants?"

"No," they reply in sync.

"Okay."

The trio share a look before laughing, Anabeth's soprano a contrast to their tenor and bass.

"Buckingham Palace," John says in disbelief. "I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ash tray."

Anabeth glances around a small smile on her lips. "What are we doing here? Seriously."

"I don't know," Sherlock replies.

"Here to see the queen?" John offers.

Anabeth chuckles and shakes her head. She smirks as Mycroft enters the room, Hannah shortly behind him. "Apparently, yes."

Again they laugh together.

Mycroft clenches his jaw. "Just once could you three behave like grownups?"

"We solve crimes," John says. "She's American, I blog about it, and they forget their pants. I wouldn't hold up too much hope."

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft," Sherlock tells.

"And I was getting breakfast. Somehow my toaster has managed to make its way upstairs." Anabeth mumbled.

"The Hiker and the Backfire? I glanced at the police report, bit obvious wasn't it?" Mycroft asks.

"Transparent," Sherlock responds.

"Time to move on then." Clearing his throat, the elder Holmes leans down, picks up the pile of clothes and holds them out towards his brother, who stares at him petulantly. He sighs. "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, put on your trousers."

Sherlock shrugs. "What for?"

"Your client."

"And my client is?" Sherlock asks as he stands.

"Illustrious in the extreme."

The five of them turn towards the new individual, the two still sitting stand to greet the man.

"And remaining, I'll have to inform you, entirely anonymous. Mycroft, Miss Wayne."

Mycroft steps forward and takes the man's hand to shake it. "Harry. May I just apologize for the state of my little brother."

"And I, for my dear friend," Hannah says shaking the man's hand as well.

"Full time occupation, I imagine," Harry jokes. He turns towards the trio previously resting on the couch. "And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Yes," John says taking the man's hand. "Hello."

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

"Your employer?" John asks.

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch."

John looks pointedly at Sherlock in an "I told you so" manner.

"Gunnery Sergeant Christabella Quinn of the US Marine Corps." Harry says stepping around John.

Anabeth shakes the proffered hand and gives a curt nod. "Sir."

He moves on to the next person. "And Mr Holmes, the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

Sherlock nods. "I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." He turns and stalks past. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I get enough mystery on one end of my cases, both ends is too much. Good morning," he calls over his shoulder.

Mycroft steps to on the end of the sheet as it passes by him. The sheet unravels itself from the alabaster body of Sherlock, and he's quick to catch it before it falls completely. Anabeth has to look away and clear her throat.

"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up!" Mycroft growls.

"Get of my sheet!"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you."

"Boys," John says, "please not here."

"Who. Is. My. Client?" Sherlock all but begs.

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," Mycroft orders. "You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now, for God's sake- Put your clothes on."

* * *

"And there is our whole childhood in a nutshell," snipes Sherlock in response to Mycroft's prior utterance.

There's a silent moment when the six sit in a small less-than-comfortable silence.

"My employer has a, er, problem," Harry says eventually.

"A matter has come to light," Mycroft begins, "of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why?" Sherlock wonders. "You have a police force of sorts even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?"

"People come to you for help, don't they Mr. Holmes.?" Harry asks.

"Mmmm, not to date anyone with the navy."

"It's a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust," Mycroft says.

"You don't trust your own secret service?" John wonders.

"Don't be daft," Anabeth states. "They spy for a livin', of course he doesn't trust them. Or me. Or Hannah. Now, movin' on to the actual case at hand and not simply what it's a matter of. What exactly are we dealing with?"

"Yes, of course," Mycroft picks up his brown leather brief case from the floor and unlocks it in his lap. "What do you know of this woman?" he asks passing a photograph across the way.

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock says after a brief second.

"Then you should be paying more attention."

Anabeth takes the photograph from Sherlock's hands. "If he knew who this woman was, I'd be slightly afraid of what he did late at night. Her name is Irene Adler. Center of two political scandals and ended the marriage of a well know novelist. She was the mistress of both participants, separately of course."

Sherlock looks to Anabeth, slightly curious. "You know I don't concern myself with trivia," he says glancing at his brother.

"Professionally she goes by The Woman," Mycroft tells.

"Professionally?" John inquires.

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers  _dominatrix_."

"Dominatrix," Sherlock breathes.

"Oh, don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock counters.

Mycroft scoffs. "How would you know?"

There's an itch that crawls underneath Anabeth's skin as she glances up and between the brothers. There's a hint of something that only ever shows up in the younger child's eyes when natural sibling rivalry goes too far that's half hidden in the blue green of Sherlock's eyes. Anabeth's all too familiar with the look and she scratches at that itch with a cheeky grin and the words; "Oh, trust. Sex certainly doesn't alarm him. I'd give you details... but I'm certain you don't want hear how delicious he is in bed." She doesn't turn her head to meet the inquiring gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft continues as if she hadn't spoken. "She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding, for those that enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it." He pulls a few more photos from his briefcase and passes them across. "These are all from her website."

Sherlock scans through them quickly before handing them to Anabeth who simply waves them away.

"I suppose Ms. Adler has compromising photographs?" Anabeth asks.

"Very quick, Ms. Quinn," Harry states.

"Hardly difficult deduction," Sherlock replies. "Photographs of whom?"

Mycroft, Hannah and Harry all exchange a glance.

"A person of significance to my employer," Harry finally states, "We'd prefer not to say anymore at this time."

"You can't tell us anything?" John asks.

"I can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft tells.

"A young female person," Hannah elaborates and Anabeth has to smile because this is Hannah's favorite game.

"How many photographs?" Sherlock questions.

"A considerable number apparently."

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes they do."

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

"John," Anabeth and Sherlock say together. They glance at each other before Anabeth stares at her clasped hands.

"You might want to put that cup back in its saucer now," Sherlock finishes.

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asks.

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case? Pay her, now, and in full. As Miss Adler remarks on her website; know when you are beaten."

"She doesn't want anything," Mycroft snaps. Sherlock looks to him interested for the first time since arriving. "She got in touch, warned us the photographs existed. She indicted she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor."

"Oh," Sherlock says suddenly realizing, "a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooo, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

"Sherlock," John warns.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asks as he stands up and prepares to leave.

"In London, currently. She's staying-"

"Text me the details, I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

"You really think you'll have something by then?" the equerry asks.

"No I think I'll have the photographs."

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think."

"I'll need some equipment of course," Sherlock states after scrutinizing Harry.

"Anything you require, I'll have it sent-" Mycroft starts.

"Can I have a box of matches?"

"I'm sorry?" the equerry wonders.

Sherlock holds his hand out. "Or your cigarette lighter either one will do."

"I don't smok-"

"Oh I know you don't, but your employer does."

"We have kept a lot of people," Harry says reaching into his pocket, "successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm not the commonwealth," Sherlock replies as he leaves. "Laterz."

John follows immediately, giving only a short and curt "pleasure to meet you," leaving Anabeth to follow him. Hannah catches her before she's gone.

"The DCS is after her as well," Hannah states.

Anabeth rolls her eyes and continues on. "The DCS can get over himself."


	16. The Need To Prove

**The White Stallion Burlesque Club**

The Madam paced back and forth in front of the only empty vanity that night.

"Relax, Madam," one of the other girls, Mandaline, called to her. "Anabeth said she'd be here. She's the one girl that keeps her promises here."

"Anabeth's skipped out on us all week," the Madam said pointedly. "I don't entirely trust the girl."

"She's one of the best girls we've ever had, Kiki," Toni calls to her from the balcony above. "Give her a break. She said it was a family emergency."

The Madam gave the mulatto girl a cursory look. "Give her a break? How much family can one American have in London?"

"None, actually," a sharp voice says. "Not anymore. Thanks for your concern. I've been busy this week. With family problems, yes, but not in London. I've been out of town most of the week." The lie slipped from her crimson lips naturally. "You can call my brother if you'd like. I mean he's not exactly happy about ending his honeymoon a week early but, you know, he won't mind defending his baby sister's honor."

Kiki's jaw set as she shot Anabeth a meaningful glare, which was rebutted with one of a dare. Anabeth took her seat at her mirror and pulled the bag of cosmetics from her purse. The bag was immediately dumped out on the table. Kiki walked away with a bit less pep than earlier. "Thirty minutes to showtime," she growls.

Anabeth begins to slather foundation on her face sighing at the temperature of it. "I can't stand her and she knows it. She's needs a viable excuse to cut me. And one family emergency isn't it."

Roxanna, a tall lithe natural strawberry blonde, came and leaned on Anabeth's table already in full costume. "You know, you could be a little less rude and maybe she won't strangle you."

"Oh? And risk losing my bad ass reputation? I don't think so. It's too much fun." She paints her eyelids a smokey gray before gluing bejeweled eyelashes on. "I just have the Cher number tonight right?"

"Yeah, Madam Kiki was worried you wouldn't show. And you haven't practiced so..."

"I always practice, not that-"

"Yeah, yeah. Not that you need to."

"Damn skippy."

Madam Kiki called fifteen 'til. And the girls rushed around to put their outfits on. With a final stroke of red to her lips, Anabeth powdered her face with settling powder before rushing off to find the skimpy little black thing she had to squeeze into.

* * *

Anabeth had just gotten off stage when things began going down hill.

"Have you seen Sherry?" Kiki asked her.

Anabeth shook her head. "Not since we went out for a smoke right before I went on. She stayed out there."

"She wasn't out back," Roxanna says slipping the back fire door shut.

Anabeth shrugged. "Did she go for a walk you think?"

Roxanna shook her head. "I didn't see her."

"We need to find her," Kiki ordered. "Check the bathroom."

Roxanna crossed her arms. "I already did. She's not here. She might have left."

"She might have gone for a walk. Clear her head," Quinn states. "She's been having troubles with her boyfriend, you know. I'll go slip into something warmer and see if she's gotten too far." She turns away quickly and rushed to her table to slip into the trench coat waiting on the back of her chair. Her black stilettos click on the refurbished flooring of back stage. She hastens to the door pulling her cell phone from her pocket. Sherry's number is hidden within the S's of her contacts. The bar is clicked and soon a dial tone is emanating into her ear.

The night is exceptionally chilly on her fishnet clad legs. She shivers a bit as Lady Antebellum's "American Honey" began playing shortly down the alley. Quinn pulls her phone from her ear.

"Sherry?" she calls out. "Sherry, is that you?" Her pace quickens to a near run as she nears the other side of the dumpster. "Sherry, what are you- Ohmygod."

Sherry was a short blonde who favored the color yellow, which made sense considering the normally cheery mood she owned. Currently, though, she wore a short black silk robe, the very same she'd been wearing twenty minutes prior, ripped open to reveal a hot pink corset stained crimson. The woman's glassy blue eyes stared up at the starless sky.

Quinn reached down to pick up her phone had clattered to the ground upon finding her co-worker dead. She glances at the screen to see it back on her contact list. For a second her thumb hovered over the name above Sherry's. And while she deserved a thorough investigation as he could provide, after scoping through the Doctor's blog, she knew he'd be bored. Instead she flicked the list back up and clicked on Madam Kiki's name.

"Hey, you might want to come out here."

* * *

"Are you Miss Ryder?"

Anabeth glances up at the man in front of her, the man in charge no doubt, and gives a small nod. "Yes, that's me."

The man gives a small smile and holds out a small envelope. Cautiously she takes the envelope and stares at the graceful swooping of her name on the front. The calligraphy a slight ornamental variation of an English Script. She flipped it over to find a red wax seal with the Quinn family crest pressed into it.

"You've got to be kidding me," she breathes as she opens the letter. The stationery was thick, bohemian... and her own she realizes as she takes in the clock in the bottom right hand corner over which a black feather was taped. The handwriting, less flamboyant as on the envelope but just the same nonetheless, covered the entire page.

" _Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,_  
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.  
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow  
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -  
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -  
Nameless here for evermore."

_It seems our friend shared a mutual liking of Edgar Allen Poe. A distinguished author, do you not agree? It was on this night that you told me fourteen years ago, though it was ten at the time, that you lost your voice in the form of a broken heart but found it in the flourish of a paintbrush. It's a pity really. I would've loved to hear you sing, Sherry as well._

_You must believe me when I say; I did not want to kill her. Such a waste of beauty to lie motionless beneath the earth forevermore. It was the only way I could think of to grab your attention. I certainly hope it worked. You should never turn your back._

_A little bird, a raven in fact, once told me you hate long ops. Well, here's your chance to liven it up. I challenge the brilliant mind of the youngest Quinn to a game of wits and deduction. I have someone near to you, a young woman whom you spoke with just earlier this evening. Know that I will kill again and on that new corpse, I will leave you clues to Emily's whereabouts. Ahh, yes, young Miss Emily Becker-Hills. I hope you know it was simply too easy to figure her name. You're getting lax as of late dear Christabella._

_Follow the clues, and do everything I say, and Emily will be returned to you, unscathed. If you do not, well, you can say goodbye to yet another asset. Are you up to the task, Miss Quinn? Or will this story end as all Poe's do? With madness, sin and horror?_

Anabeth lifts her eyes from the unsigned letter to the man in front of her, Detective Inspector Lestrade, if she remembered correctly. "Does Holmes trust you?"

He gives her a confused look. "Holmes? As in Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, Mike Holmes." She shakes her head in disdain. "Of course Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade shrugs. "About as far as he can throw me."

"Fine, good. I don't want anyone else to work on this case. Including your team. I want their involvement a minimum."

"Oi! Who says you can do that?" Lestrade asks miffed.

"The simple fact that this case is officially over your head." Quinn gives him an earnest smile before pulling out her phone and sending off a quick text. "I suggest you tell your little puppets to wrap it up now. And it's not me who says I can. It's the man you're about to get a call from now."

It's not a minute later that Lestrade's phone rings. Suspicious, he answers it and hardly gets a word in before the voice on the other end begins ranting. Lestrade's able to get in a few, "Yes, Sir's" and "No, sir's" and even a "Right away, sir" before the line goes dead and he's glaring at the dancer.

"I don't know how you did it, I have a feeling I don't want to know." Lestrade held out a hand to Anabeth who shook it. "Nice meeting you."

"You as well."

Lestrade calls for his people to leave and within five minutes the alleyway is empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I totally stole that from The Raven.
> 
> I know. I'm terrible.


	17. Long Nights

Anabeth sighs to herself. The letter is half crumpled in her hand as she takes a seat on the stoop of the club's back door. The body had already been taken to St. Bart's and all the witness interviewed all that was left was to wait for the autopsy and inevitably the next body. Of course there's evidence here, with this crime, but none of it would be worth a damn until the next victim.

It wasn't six minutes later that a wet nose pressed against her thigh. She looks down the Siberian Husky and smiles.

"What are you doing here girl?" she asks as she scratches the dog's head.

"I found her, wandering the streets, alone and lost."

Quinn looked up in to blue eyes so similar to hers. "Lies. Lizzy is never lost, are you girl?"

Lizzy, or more commonly Blizzard, presses her nose to her companions thigh in assent.

"So, back to work so soon?"

Alfie shrugs. "Eh, Chris'll understand. My baby sister needs me."

Anabeth shook her head. "I do not need you. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

The brother glances around the alley. "Certainly seems like it."

Quinn clears her throat and glares at him. "Is there a team coming to examine the scene?"

Alfie shook his mess of ginger curls. "No. I believe everything that's worth examining has already been. But of course, you could always have you detective friend come over."

"He is on his way."

Alfie bends down and pushes her hair behind her ear and smiles as he straightens up.

"What was that?"

Alfie smirks. "Just making sure you haven't turned completely Vulcan on us. There's hope for you yet."

"Gee, thanks."

* * *

Anabeth paces the alley as Hannah reads aloud the letter, her thigh high purple suede stiletto boots clicking on the dirty ground.

"Harley, will you stop that?" Hannah asks suddenly. "It's giving me whiplash."

"This sick bastard has her, Wayne. And you want me to just stand here?" Quinn growls. "You know me better than that."

"And we've also been here for forty-five minutes," Alfie states irritated. "When is your little detective friend supposed to show up?"

Quinn gives him a glance. "You are just cranky from the cold."

"You're right, I am." He sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't understand, Ana, what's going on? You're never this discombobulated. You're always analytical, always together. What does this case have that others don't? You've been found out before so that's not it."

Anabeth's answer is cut off by the sharp vibrating of her phone. She starts to pace again as she pulls the message up.

**Hello? Anybody there? Annie-belle?**

Her face goes sour at the nickname. She really never did like it.

"So that's it?" Alfie asks. "It's Jim again? Fifteen years and you're still not over him?"

"Will you two stop making me older than I really am? It is fourteen years and yes, I am over him. I have been. And do not think I have forgotten I was not the only one hurt by his leaving me. I seem to remember you both on the couch scarfing down Ben & Jerry's whilst I got ready for yet another therapy session months after the fact."

Hannah gets an aha! look to her face. "You were in therapy because why? Oh that's right, you immediately went into shock and wouldn't speak for  _months after the fact._ "

Anabeth groaned. "Do we have to talk about my personal life?"

"Ana, this whole thing, being in London, you trying to nab Jim,  _is_  your personal life," Alfie explains. "I hate to break it to you, but unless you drag him into Langley tomorrow morning, your personal life is what we have to talk about."

Hannah cleared her throat and nods to the other end of the alley. Anabeth turns and sighs in relief. She walks swiftly toward the Consulting Detective and his partner-in-crime-solving with Blizzard at her heels. She pulls up her own photos, snapped before the police arrived, and hands the former the phone.

"Sherry Frans, 28, a dancer here at the Stallion. It appears she was killed with a straight razor to the throat. These were the only pics I got before your friend showed up."

Sherlock's eyes had traced her as she waltzed toward him. Speechless now, he looks down to the Joker themed iPhone and swipes through the pictures.

"Lestradecoudnthandlethis?" He clears his throat and shakes his head. "Lestrade couldn't handle this?"

"Should I stop dressing like this?" Anabeth asks looking to John who was trying to find something to not stare at himself. "Because it seems any time I'm in less than a blouse and skirt, Holmes finds himself tongue tied."

"Yes, that would, ahem, be nice," John replies still looking away.

Anabeth gives a humorless laugh. "It would seem so. And to answer your nearly indecipherable question, Holmes, yes, Lestrade could handle the case. And on the record he is. But I need someone who knows my true occupation to work it off the case. I would do it myself but the simple fact of my emotional involvement prevents me from doing so. Hannah is of no use to me and Alfie is not made for the field." She turns to them, "No offense. So that leaves me with you two. Again no offense meant."

Sherlock meets Quinn's emotionless eyes for a brief moment.

"I owe you," she says softly before returning to her previous group. "I found her by the dumpster. Lestrade found this note. Probably in her pocket." She holds up the letter. "The contents are in the memo I sent you. Lestrade should be sending the rest of the information and evidence found, if he hasn't already. I am having Alfie analyze the handwriting, like always. I am treating this as any other op, forgive me if I seem too mechanized." The letter is passed to her brother and she stalks back down the alley to get her phone.

"I did not get very long to look at the body, so I am off to St. Bart's. The woman in the morgue, the little brunette willing to do anything you say, what was her name?"

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock answers. "Are you not staying?"

"And have you stare at the giant bow on my ass or the jewels adorning my brassiere?" Anabeth questions with a sultry voice. "I'm assuming anyway. I'll pass on that one. As I said, I'm off to St. Bart's."

* * *

**St. Bart's Hospital**

"Molly Hooper, correct?"

The slender brunette turns from the buffet and to the voice. She comes face to face with the American woman from weeks ago now.

"Yes," she says slowly.

The dark haired woman smiled warmly. "We met earlier. I'm Anabeth Ryder, part-time dancer, part-time artist, and apparently now part-time detective. I live in the flat beneath Holmes."

"Oh, nice to meet you." Molly's still weary of the woman, pictures of her earlier temper flaring in her mind.

"And you. I was wondering, um Holmes mentioned that you would be my best option, but I was hoping that you might allow me to look at a, um," Anabeth allows her voice to crack here, "girl that came in earlier, uh Sherry Frans?"

Molly looks down at her clipboard and spots the name. "Oh, I've just sent off the paperwork."

Anabeth frowns. "Alright then. You've sent your findings to DI Lestrade I presume then?" She doesn't wait for an answer.

"Miss Ryder?" Molly calls before she's too far away. Anabeth turns with a bright smile on her face, though it looks forced. "Did Sherlock not tell you to look at the body yourself? He always has his... colleague look if he can't."

"I'm not a colleague, Miss Hooper. And please call me Anabeth. I'm not even a friend. I was intrigued by my strange neighbor and when he offered me a chance to tag along, I took it. I wanted to see a friend one last time and inquired of him a way to and he gave me your name. But if you've finished with her, I see no call for you to drag her out again. We weren't that close after all. I knew her from work."

Molly returns the woman's now solemn smile. "I could pull her out for just a moment. It's hardly a big deal."

Anabeth nods once. "You're in need of a friend, Molly Hooper. One not enamored by death. I hope I could be that friend one day. Until we meet again, Miss Hooper."

* * *

**221C Baker Street**

"You know, your detective friend is kinda hot," Alfie says as he lounges on the couch. "I mean, the short one's kinda cute. But if I was you, I'd go after the psychopath."

"Sociopath," Anabeth corrects.

"So you  _do_  care."

"Only about the misuse of the word "psychopath." And he has a name."

Alfie looks up at his sister whose sitting sideways in her armchair with the dog under her hand. "Of which you only use the surname of."

"You are here to tell me about the handwriting."

"It's not an exact science."

"I know."

"And it's very easy to disguise."

"Yet most people do not. So what did you get?" she asks as she pick up the letter yet again.

Alfie sighs and looks down at the photocopy on the coffee table. "You see how the letters don't slant? He's like you."

This earns him a glare. "I do not kill and kidnap people."

"Not anymore," he reminds. Anabeth drops her gaze back to the letter. "I meant, he's logical and practical and guards his emotions. Now look at where he's says "I challenge the youngest Quinn..." His writing starts to tilt to the right. He's starting to become manipulative, controlling, perhaps a bit intrusive. His lettering is large, using both the front and back of the paper. He's outgoing and has a big personality, but it might just be an act. Heavy pressure might be a sign of commitment or seriousness, I wouldn't doubt either. But the inordinate amount of it... he's volatile. One wrong word and he'll snap.

"Closed L's and E's mean he's tense and skeptical. Probably about giving you so many hint's in this first letter, maybe about pleasing you, which is given away by the roundness of his S's. Tall upper stokes, as in L's and T's and H's like he has, show he has an unrealistic expectation of what he should achieve with the conquest. The way his G's and Y's lack a loop; he's impatient. The spacing between words could indicate a wish to be with others with the narrowness. It's more probable for him to be intrusive. The small distance between lines mean he's close to the action.

"Now," Alfie states with a deep breath, "the margins. The left margin being narrow, hints to caution and avoidence of being pushed before they're ready. The right being narrow as well, tells of impatience and an eagerness to continue."

"And you said it was not an exact science," Anabeth says amused.

"It's not. Anabeth, listen to me," he tells her seriously, "I know you trust me and my judgment. But it could go either way with this. I could be spot on, or I could be dead wrong. Hell, it could be some variation in the middle."

"What does you gut say?"

Alfie sighs. "My gut? My gut says this is a guy you can't challenge. You do what he says to every letter and don't go off course. Get Emily back and be done with or without apprehending the perpetrator."

"Then it is a good thing I do not rely on not gut feelings but analysis."


	18. The Worst Things In Life Come Free To Us

**Bank of Thames River**

It was less than twelve hours before the next body was found. Sherlock had beaten Quinn there and already had John looking at the body.

"You're a Quinn," he says all-knowingly as he hands her an envelope.

"Pardon?" Anabeth frowns. "The Equerry did introduce me as such, this is not news to you."

"Your family is rather wealthy. No doubt because of the success of the vineyard in rural Virginia. But also because of dealing in the past, not all of them legal. Fourth generation Irish-American on your father's side, one-quarter Cherokee and second generation Italian-American on your mother's side, which is where you get your appearance, though you look nothing like your mother and you have your father's eyes. The color of which is enhanced by colored contacts. You're near sighted, your left eye is worse than your right. You racked up quite a rap sheet as a juvenile. The cause of your sister's losing battle with cancer. Most of it was expunged shortly before your decision to join the US Marine Corps. Before that, however, before your sister's death even, you were engaged. The wedding set for June 10th, 1996. But that was the second time it was postponed. The first date set sometime in February-"

"February 22," Quinn snaps.

"A date you still remember. The very day you met your now ex-fiancé. Your sister's cancer is what postponed it. It went back into remission just a month later and chose the first date available. Should have stuck with February, Miss Quinn. He still loved you then. He left you at the altar."

"Just before he said I do." Her comment is full of snide and anger.

"You're the only Quinn to be left at the altar. Not a good feeling, I imagine. Also not why you chose to lock your feelings away is it? Unlike what your family thinks. It was only a stepping stone to the matter. Your parents sudden dislike for everything you did afterward, more so your sister's disappointment. And let's not forget the brief return trip to Georgia, the one your sister died on. Nothing good comes from visiting Georgia, at least not for you; those brought us even closer to the edge. So what pushed you over?"

"You are wrong. Yes, those things are valid reasons, given my past as," she hold up the letter, "this man has stated. But do not take the word of a murderer as gospel. No good will come of it, I assure you. What pushed me over this metaphysical edge as you called it? Payton called me, just like she did every night. And I, like every night, sang her to sleep. Adult or not, hospitals frightened her, and the only way she could sleep was if I sang to her. Only me. I often am grouped with Alfie and Archie since we are closest in age. And on occasion Fiona is thrown in there too, with me as the centerpiece. But Payton was my twin, though she had two of her own. I was a younger her.

"It was 8:46 when I noticed she had gone asleep. I hung up just a moment later. I received a call the next afternoon, from Alfie… seemed he had drawn the short straw.  _Ces't la vie_. Her time of death was 9:50, take into account the hour time difference, and the fact that it took four minutes for a nurse to reach her room… That is what caused me to fall. That is why I have locked my emotions away."

She looks down to the envelope in her hand, the too elegant script glaring up at her. "To Whom it may Concern" scribbled on the front. Faintly, she can hear the ghost of the sound of her own quill echo down the bank of the Thames.

"This letter was not for me, but you. This clue, this body, this scene; yours. He knows you will share this with me. A "one step back" sort of deal. The information found in this half assed biography, I know. I dictated this to him-"

Sherlock cuts her off with a strange glare/confused look. "You keep saying "him"? Do you know who "he" is?"

"Four years ago, I was on tour in Iraq. And if I remember correctly, yesterday four years ago, we had had a semi-relaxing day, just some off time on base. A couple of guys and I had a little to drink, played some football and chatted about home." She shrugs. It could have been any number of men or woman in her platoon. But there was always that one man, Bryson something, that always struck her as weird and out there. "I have an inkling."

* * *

**221C Baker Street**

Waking up to the incessant tapping at her door at three o'clock the next morning is not how Anabeth planned to start her day. Actually, she really didn't plan anything besides finding another body, making the total to three. But still, three am was pushing it.

On the other side of her bedroom door was none other than the man upstairs. She winced at the wording her sleep deprived brain created and glared at the intruder. Because breaking into someone's apartment was one thing but casually walking through the unlocked bedroom door was another, though later with a rational, fully awake brain, she supposed that his reaction to her in nothing but the black silk robe, which hung open, was enough to explain his reasoning. And forgive him for the breaking and entering in the first place. His reactions to her body will never not send a jolt of pleasure through her.

She does wrap the silk thing around herself. "Sorry. Did you need something?"

Sherlock clears his throat and focuses on something behind her. Most likely Lizzy who remained asleep on the bed. "You didn't respond to any of my texts or Alfie's phone calls."

"Uh, yeah. My phone is off. I enjoy sleeping," her voice holds a disrespectful, condescending tone. "As you know, I have a very difficult schedule to keep up with." She turns and heads back into the bedroom to slip on some clothes.

* * *

**Alley Behind The Hummingbird Bakery, Soho**

_Little Charlotte Ames, a fan of Agatha Christie, choked to death on a cupcake. You like to bake, don't you? You're in charge of desserts come Christmas time in the Quinn manner, are you not? Do you know how hard it is to find American's that have crossed your path without recognizing you?_

_Three bodies on your conscious now... well, four. The old lady during The Great Game, you pulled the trigger did you not? You can stop this. All you need is to find your voice again, mon cher. It's not looking too good for you. Or London. Three bodies...one more and they announce a serial killer..._

"I don't understand," Alfie states. "I thought he was supposed to give you clues as to where Emily was hidden?"

"He did." Anabeth says standing in the middle of the alley. "Pay no attention to the letter. Analyze it if you must. It's more like a clue to a clue."

"What-"

Anabeth glares at her brother briefly before returning to her stance. Her fingers laced except her forefingers were pressed together and tapping her nose. Her eyes, though closed, were hidden behind black ovular glasses. In her mind, pinned onto some wall somewhere was a map of London.

The letter and murder, led quite obviously to Agatha Christie's  _ABC Murders_. Charlotte. Choked. Cupcake. It was all there. The only thing that did not fit was the location, which meant the actual clue was in some place that started with a "C".

This far in her head, it's impossible for her to notice the outside world. Not even her brother's worried questions to Sherlock about her health, and sanity. Nor Sherlock's reply of he's not sure, but he doesn't think she's doing well.

"She's using contractions. In and out of character. And even then, it's nearly impossible to tell the two apart. You know her better. You tell me."

"The only person who knows her is her."

Anabeth chuckles darkly as she blinks back into reality. "How fitting."

"Did you figure it out?" Alfie asks as he walks toward her.

"Caroline Castigliano."

"Who?"

"A designer. She has a bridal shop not far from her. Four minutes, give or take, by foot."


	19. Crumbling Like Pastries

**Caroline Castigliano Bridal Boutique**

"I never understood marriage," Anabeth says as she looks into the window of the shop.

Alfie rolls his eyes. "You weren't saying that before."

"Before I was a foolishly naive teenaged girl. Lust and hormones ruled my mind. Love was just a word that made my heart race." She shrugs and walks around to the back. "Now, it's pointless. Who needs a marriage? All it is, is a formal ceremony in which so called friends and family dress up and watch you share words. Unless you go for a more civil union. Still, the thought's shallow at best. If you need a piece of paper to tell you that your significant other loves you, you have issues."

"Love," Sherlock says as he jogs ahead to the door, "is a dangerous disadvantage, Miss Quinn."

"Certainly," Anabeth agrees. "For someone like us. Too many people are after us. We share a common enemy. Imagine if Moriarty figured our weaknesses." She chuckles as she pushes him out of the way and picks the lock. She shoves the door open and pulls her pistol from the small of her back as she slowly creeps in.

Sherlock follows her closely, Alfie goes off in search of the alarm system (which isn't that far from the back door) and John's all but disappeared from the group. Probably still back at the crime scene with Lestrade.

"You were the sniper," Sherlock says the moment they're alone.

Anabeth sighed. "You were never in any real danger. Not from me at least. Moriarty had no intentions of killing you there. Either of you. Of course things never go as planned."

"So you're working for him?"

She shrugs. "Like I said, I found my in."

"As a sniper?"

"No." Anabeth turns around abruptly, causing Sherlock to nearly run into her. "The sniper thing was an added bonus, one he already knew. He finally trusted me enough to put me in charge of something." She rolled her eyes. "I broke that trust by leaving my position and meeting you at Bart's. We're not exactly good friends."

In a flash, she's around the corner and disappeared.

* * *

The note was pinned a ball gown in the showcase room, nearly lost in the folds of fabric.

_You're tough to trick. Even on base you were tough to trick. By now you've got to have narrowed it down to just a few suspects. Me as one of them no doubt. I found it all too suiting to drag you here. There's a dress, a beautiful red gown, in the fitting rooms. It should fit. You'll need that for when you take the stage. Tomorrow night perhaps? There is an open mic night at the very same bar Sherlock Holmes was drugged in the night you met._

_Good luck._

* * *

**221c Baker Street**

"I can't do it."

"Ana, you have got to be kidding me!" Alfie shouts to the pacing woman. "You're going to let innocent people die, when you could just sing and get it over with?"

"People die all the time. Last year, 2,468,435 people died in the US alone."

"Anabeth listen yourself! This isn't you! This has never been you. No, you don't care. You haven't for a long time, but you've never allowed innocent people to just  _die_." Alfie shakes his head. "You've taken lives deliberately. You've kidnapped. You've tortured. But none of those people were good people."

"You're wrong," Anabeth breathes. "All of it. The mental anguish I've put people through, because in their eyes they were good, surpasses anything good I have ever done. I have taken innocent lives. I have captured innocent people. And yes, I even tortured them. You don't know the horror I have done these past six months."

"Anabeth-"

"Alfred, I said I couldn't do it!" she shouts. Her hands are tossed in the air and her foot is literally stomped. "Not that I won't because god that would be so much fucking easier. I physically can't sing. I have tried."

Alfie's at a lost for words; his mouth opening and closing, not unlike a fish. The unbidden fury alight in his sister's eyes told of her hatred of being found out and perhaps a hint of sorrow as she sees the disappointment in Alfie's face. It's gone as soon as he latches on and he thinks maybe he didn't really see it.

The sound of a bedroom door slamming shut echos through the small flat. The click of the lock slightly louder.

* * *

Steam fills the tiny bathroom, swirling with scents of strawberries and warm sugar and vanilla and lilacs, mingling with the dulcet sounds of Ron Pope and Parachute and Ed Sheeran. It's all very Anabeth, when you think of it. Ryder not Quinn. Though he hasn't known either for very long.

"Get out of my bathroom Alfie."

"Wrong."

There's a loud thump as a bottle is dropped in the tub.

"Son of a bitch. Holmes, get out of my bathroom."

"Sing," the man says as he drops the lid to the toilet and sits down on top of it.

"Get out of my bathroom."

"Not until you sing."

Anabeth sighs and rinses the conditioner from hair. "I can't."

"Wrong."

The water is shut off and an olive hand is stuck out of the curtain. "Hand me my towel please?"

"Sing for me please?" He mimics her tone and stares at the curtain defiantly.

"Please," she whispers, her throat tightening at the prospect of having to sing just to get out of her shower. "Just give me my towel, Holmes."

"I might not care, Anabeth, but that doesn't mean I wish to watch innocent people die."

"I can't-" she clears her throat, "I can't help it."

Sherlock sighs. "You can do it. All you have to do is stand in front of a small crowd and sing a few bars. You did it a plethora of times as a child. Every night for your sister. It won't be hard. It isn't physical, it's psychological. Stage fright. You're afraid you'll disappoint your deceased sister. How sad is that? Sentiment. Disadvantage. You don't care remember, Anabeth? You could just throw on the dress and a pair of patent heels and belt out a tune or two. Or three. What happened? You were never afraid before. Certainly this is all in your head. Psychosomatic."

"Stop," she tries saying but it doesn't come out because she can't breath and she's choking. She's hyperventilating. "Stop," she repeats. But he just continues.

Just continues speaking, calling her out, mouthing all her worst thoughts. How can he know them? He can't.

It's all in her head.

She knows this.

She's always known this.

He can't know this.

Her stomach is churning, something akin to butterflies but twelve times worse. The room is spinning and the cream of her bathroom morphs into the browns and blacks and greens of her bedroom. How did she get here?

Someone's calling her name. It's a hollow sound.

She tries to calm her heart, tries to urge the room to stop dancing, tries to take a deep breath but it hurts like a deep stabbing. She's sweating but it's cold in her room. Of course, the fan is on. Her hair is soaked through. Not sweating, she remembers the shower.

It's too dark. Too loud. Too empty.

Why is it so bad? They're never this bad.

It's just a panic attack.

Nothing is going to harm you.

Take deep breaths.

In, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four, five.

Calm down. Relax.

"I'm here."

"I am too, Harls."

"It's going to be fine, Anabeth."

"Deep breaths, Ana. Do it with me. There you go."

"What did you say to her, Mr. Holmes?"

Anabeth opens her eyes, her heart and breathing nearly to normal. "He asked me to sing. I told you I physically could not."

"Do it."

The three attending to Anabeth look the man who remained in the door way to the bathroom.

"Are you crazy?" Alfie wondered. "She just had a massive panic attack, and you want her to do it again?"

Sherlock shrugs off the door frame and walks toward the bed. "The only way to get over your fear is if you confront it."

"I'm not- I can't-"

He smirks and takes her shoulders into his hands. "You can, Anabeth. Sing!"

 _Please? Do it for me?_ It's her sister's voice.

Her eyes widen and she can feel her heart pick up. "What? Ow! Holmes! You're hurting me!"

"Sing, Miss Quinn."

_Sing me to sleep? Please? Just one last song._

"The other night  _dear_ ," she whispers, "as I lay sleeping.  
I dreamed I held you  _in my arms_."

"Ana, you don't have to do this," Alfie tells her softly.

"Ignore him, Christabella ."

" _When I awoke_ dear I was mistaken," her voice is raspy and the soft melody her voice held slowly faded away. "So I hung my head and I cried."

"Oh, come on, Christabella," Sherlock complains. "You can do better than that."

"You are my sunshine,  _my only sunshine  
You make me happy when skies are grey_"

John sighs softly and climbs off the bed with the intentions of leaving. He has to urge Alfie and Hannah out before he can though.

" _You'll never know, dear, how much I love you,  
Please don't take my sunshine... _away ," she says breathlessly as she collapses forward into Sherlock's arms in tears.

"I told you."

"Thank you, Sherlock. "

She's sure she imagines the soft kiss to her hair, and the deep breath a second later, the arms around her body, and the small squeeze a moment later, because when she opens her eyes again, he's gone and sunlight is filtering through her satin curtains.


	20. No, I Won't Fight

It happened at the next crime scene. One last clue before the big ordeal, just in case. The letter left on the body was worthless, having spent the night in the rain beforehand.

Lestrade and his team had already worked the scene like any other before the letter was even found. When it was found nearly down the drainage grate, and Sherlock, John and Anabeth were called, the team was told to wrap it up. The crime scene was only two blocks from Baker Street and the trio, with the addition of Blizzard, were there in no more than four minutes, partially because Anabeth sprinted.

In fact she sprinted all the way to the body of a young girl, lying in the grass.

"Kyra Devore," Lestrade tells as John analyzes the body and Sherlock scopes the scene, "seventeen-"

"Repeat the name," Anabeth asks softly, almost distracted.

"What?"

"The name," Sherlock snaps. "Repeat the name."

"Kyra Devore? Did you know her?"

Anabeth shakes her head and turns to the large tree not too far away. "Does that tree look like a woman to you?"

"What?"

She waves her hand to dismiss the question and walks toward the tree. Something hidden the grass, and upon further inspection something belonging to Forensics, Anderson in particular, doesn't hit the stiletto of Anabeth's shoe quite right, or rather vise versa, and she trips.

Well, the heel of her shoe snaps and she twists her ankle and rather than fight it she just went with it, her hands out stretched to catch herself. She never needed to, for Sherlock managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

"Alright?" he asks as they sit in the wet grass together.

"Fine," she breathes. "Just twisted my ankle is all."

"Let me see," he says getting to his knees.

She chuckled and toes her shoes off. "Never thought I'd see you on your knees for me."

"Don't get used to it. Your ankle is starting to swell."

She rolls her eyes. "That tends to happen with a sprain. It just needs to be wrapped and iced. I sprained a lot of things growing up. Dancing is hard." She rolls her ankle with a small hiss of pain that she tries hiding behind clenched teeth. "I can move it. It's not broken."

"Has anyone seen-"

Sherlock turns toward the specialist snatching whatever it was from the grass and tossed it harshly at him. "Pick up after yourself, Anderson. People could get hurt."

"People did get hurt," Anabeth pipes up. "If you worked for me, you'd have been fired for being incompetent." She puts her good foot flat to the ground in preparation to stand. "And you've broken my favorite heels. That's $684, American of course. Give me a moment and I can convert it."

"Something akin to 500 quid," Sherlock says as he pulls at Anabeth's ankle to rest beside the other and waves Anderson off. "Anabeth sit down."

"With the current exchange rate, it's more akin to 424 quid, not 500. That's nearly 200 more American dollars than these shoes are worth." She pulls her ankle out of his gloved hand. "Stop mother-henning and help me stand. I twisted my ankle, I didn't break it."

Sherlock simply glared at her.

"The clue is buried beneath that tree," she sighs. "Sherlock-"

"Christabella."

"Fine," she sighs after a short staring contest. "At least go get the clue. It's hidden beneath a patch of sod easily lifted and in a sandwich bag probably," she tells him as he stands and walks away. "Maybe a shoe box, he likes giving me things. Don't fall in the hole! We don't need the both of us crippled."

She sighs heavily and lies back in the grass, the rain water soaking through the rest of her dress and her hair. John leans over her a minute later.

"You alright?" he wonders.

She shrugs and sits up. "Anderson left something behind, I tripped and sprained my ankle, Holmes is treating me like an invalid, and my ass is wet." She chuckles. "Oh and my favorite shoes are ruined. So, yeah, I'm all right." Her sassy, sarcastic tone brings a smile to John's face as he kneels down to check out the now bruising ankle.

He states the fact to her and receives an eye roll in return. It shocks him to some extent, the amount of emotion and sass coming from her today, but then he thinks better of it and keeps his mouth shut while he helps her up.

"Don't put any weight on it," Sherlock says as he comes bearing what once was a silver shoe box.

"No shit, Sherlock." Anabeth wraps her arm around John, who helps her hobble to the street. An affair made slightly awkward by the four inch height difference, Anabeth being the taller, and John's decision to touch her as little as possible.

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock mumbles, thrusting the muddy shoe box into John's hands, "hold this." In the next second, Anabeth is swept off her feet and into Sherlock's arms.

"Fu- Holmes! Put me down! I can walk!"

"Not without help," he tells as he shifts her weight so she leaning into him and she has to wrap her arm around his neck to remain comfortable. "John would be good and fine, but he won't touch you. I am too tall to effectively have your arm on my shoulder. Did you really expect to hop the whole four blocks back?"

"I don't like being babied."

"Just so."

"Look, honey, sweetheart, darling, love of my life," Anabeth says with a mock sweetness that the detective raises a brow at, "I know we were lookin' at weddin' dresses and all yesterday, but I'm fairly sure this is part of the honeymoon."

"Shoes," John says from slightly behind them. "Silver strappy shoes, a note and a blue gift bag. That's what's in the box."

"From Tiffany's no doubt," Quinn calls back. "Audrey Hepburn in  _Breakfast at Tiffany's_  is my favorite movie."

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

"You carried her four blocks because of a sprained ankle?" Hannah asked incredulous as she watched John wrap her ankle.

"I am not exactly light either," Quinn quips. "Ow, a little more loose, please."

"You're not exactly heavy either. I'd say 120 maybe 121," comes Sherlock's answer.

Anabeth has to smile. Because if he could tell Molly had gained three pounds by  _looking_ at her, then he certainly could tell how much she weighed whilst she was in his arms. And she definitely wasn't 121 on a good day. Not that she was fat, or even "big boned." She wasn't. She just happened to be bigger than most. Still there wasn't an ounce of fat on her body anywhere. In fact, most of her weight came from her more than ample bosom and muscular dancer's legs. Muscle was heavier than fat. That still didn't mean she didn't wear a size 14 pant and a 16 dress. It had to go over her bosom after all.

"Still did not need to carry me all the way back," she mumbles. "How am I supposed to wear the shoes with a twisted ankle? I cannot vary from his instructions the slightest bit. I cannot risk Emily's life like that."

Hannah shrugs. "Denver '94."

"What of it?"

"The competition. You twisted your ankle right before your performance."

"I came in fourth that year because of it."

"Yet you still performed."

"Yeah, and ending up breaking my ankle completely. That is why it is in the shape it is now." Anabeth rolls her eyes and hisses when a cold compress is placed on top of her foot. "And then I was in ballet slippers not six inch spikes."

"Play an accompaniment," Hannah suggests. "Sit at the piano, don't stand the whole time. Why are you complicating it?"

Quinn sighs softly and shifts to get more comfortable. "What the hell do I sing?" It's breathless like she's trying to keep her breathing rate normal.


	21. No Longer Am I 'Fraid Of The Fall Down

The stinging scent of alcohol and smooth smell of smoke clouded the bar, which was less of a bar and more of a cafe that served alcohol and kicked out kiddies after dark. There were far more business suits and jackets than cocktail dresses and gowns out in the crowd, but Anabeth only felt stuck out because of the American accent she owned. Alfie had gone back to Langley that morning, simply because he could no longer postpone work off, and Hannah was doing god only knows what with in the realms of American politics.

She was left alone. Her only reassurance a former British Army doctor and the world's only consulting detective. She was sure there was a consulting criminal and serial killer in the midst of the crowd somewhere.

This was different than singing a long forgotten lullaby under her breath. How the hell was she supposed to turn a spontaneous  _humming_ , because let's face it, it certainly wasn't singing, into a full blown vocalization?

Her heart starts to race again. What if she gets out there and she has a panic attack? Or if she freezes? She forgets a key? A note?

Her breathing speeds up, though she's trying to keep it at a normal pace. The chair she's sitting on surely has dents on the underside from where she's dug her crimson acrylic nails into the wood. Her fingers hurt because of it. Her ankle is killing her as well. The wrap is too tight to begin with plus it's tilted at an awkward angle because of the silver, strappy heel.

"Christabella." The word is right in her ear. She half wants it to be Payton, though the thought puts a sickly twinge in her stomach. "Christabella," he repeats and there's a ghost of a touch to her thigh, "Breathe."

"I cannot do this. Something is going to go wrong. I-I-"

"Calm down, relax," John says close to her other side, not as close as the lips that remained near her ear. "You can do this."

She shakes her head. "No, no, no, no. It is too soon. I cannot."

"Christabella," Sherlock breathes, the name is a hot breath against the shell of her ear.

She snaps her head to look at him fast enough that his lips grace the apple of her cheek before he pulls back, slightly stunned. "Why do you call me that? No one calls me that. The Equerry called me that out of respect. I cannot stand that name."

"Can't you?"

There is a small smirk playing in the corners of his lips and she's about to slap him when the emcee catches her attention.

"With this next act, you're in for a treat. Anabeth Ryder, a sweet Georgia Peach."

Sherlock's smirking when she looks back. "You're up, Quinn."

She rolls her eyes. "I can hear."

Anabeth manages to control her limping to a minimum as she walks to the stage. She takes a seat at the baby grand and begins playing the opening chords for Christina Perri's  _The Lonely_. She gets as far as the second lyric (… _cry my face off again…_ ) before her fingers still and she hangs her head.

"Screw this." She shakes her head, her hair falling from where it was delicately placed an hour and a half before. It settles in a messy mix of waves and curls framing her face and cascading down between her shoulder blades. "This is the second time I have sung since my sister died fourteen years ago, and I am on the verge of a major panic attack. And this heart wrenching ballad is not helping things. My god, how much morbid could I get?" She chuckles almost darkly. "Let us find something… happier, yes?"

Nameless patrons stare up at her, and she can almost hear the insulting statements about the strange American. Her fingers take to the keys. "How about sappy and sweet?"

It was a strange feeling, having all those eyes staring at her while adrenaline raced through her veins, getting her high on the attention. She felt normal for once. Like she no longer stuck out. Almost like she was home.

A little smile grew on her lips with every word closer to the chorus.

There was a particular pair of eyes, whose color were flickering between green and blue in tune with the light of the candles on the table before him, which lock gazes with her. The smile on the lips just a nose beneath them is no longer present.

Her fingers moved along to a melody she's never read and her lips walk with words to a song she's long remembered as her eyes dance across an audience that seems to be enjoying her performance, or are at least kind enough to plaster smiles on their face.

" _What I'm trying to say_  
In my own simple way  
I want you to be my last first kiss  
Oh, I want you to be my last first kiss"

Her eyes lock with those blue-green ones again, and she gives the detective a smile despite the questioning look on his face. She turns the smile to the one beside him before she's glancing around her audience again.

It's obvious she's happy. Every word of her body language Sherlock reads tells him that. He'd broken part of her wall, crumbled it into dust. He knew that the moment she started to sing the night before. But the initial deductions he'd made about her, the ones he made sober, they no longer applied. Add that to her strange behavior as of late… He knew it was nearly impossible to truly know a person in a span of only a few months but still…

" _I promise nothing new_  
Is gonna come around  
Making me change my mind  
Nothing new, only you on my mind"

There's a new gaze she meets, and it takes everything for her not to jump off the stage and snatch the man right then. She manages to give the man a bright-ish smile and a quick wink. She hopes Sherlock and John are paying attention and caught the hint.

She knows when the song is over; when the standing ovation comes and it will because she can clearly see the anticipation in the crowd, they're eating her up, they love her; the man will be lost in the crowd and any chance of finding Emily this night is gone. And there's naught but four lyrics left.

Three.

There's Sherlock again.

" _My heart, yes it's finally found.  
My heart, oh yes, it's _ _finally_ _found_  
Someone I can't live without."

And there's the standing ovation and whatever modest thank-you's Anabeth can come up with while trying to not trip on the hem of her dress as she stands. She's blushing by the time she steps off stage. From her vantage point she can see the man is no longer where he stood just prior.

"You were great, Anabeth," John tells her as she arrives at the table.

She smiles slightly as she continues to look around. "Thanks. Um where's Sher-ahem- Holmes?"

He furrows his brow at the correction, though he doesn't say a word of it. "I dunno. He left as soon as you finished"

Anabeth's face falls slightly but she's too busy looking for that man. He had to have been long gone by now.

"Sonovabitch," she growls.

John frowns because this was definitely not normal. She never cared for Sherlock's opinion or anyone's really. She was always glad that he would leave and not ask her to come along. "You know he won't compliment you no matter how beautiful the performance," he says just to spite himself.

"What?" Her face is blank for a second. "Oh, well, o'vi'sly. He's Sherlock Holmes. He does not care for anyone but himself. What did you expect? He insulted me the moment he met me."

She braces herself on the table to slip off her shoes, which she does quickly and her ankle feels better almost immediately. There's a glass tumbler of double malt scotch setting on the table in front of Sherlock's seat the she grasps and tosses back.

"Do you have change for the cigarette machine?" she asks jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. "I don't have any on my person, but I'll pay you back at the flat."

John nods and pulls out his wallet. "Of course. I didn't know you smoked though?"

Anabeth looks at him curiously as she takes the note he offers. "Since I was eighteen. It's a nasty habit I've been trying to rid myself of for years. Nothing's been working so far." She shrugs. "I can go a couple of months before I give in. It's been seven so far. A record." She gives him a small smile before she leaves the café, with the cigarettes of course, her ankle miraculously healed.


	22. I See The Stars In Black And White

Anabeth never smoked a single cigarette from that brand new pack. She had walked home barefoot and shivering the entire way there. It would almost be time for Thanksgiving in America if she were there. Speaking of, she'll have to ask for three days off of work so she could go celebrate with her family. Maybe she should just wait for Christmas.

The flat was empty when she arrived, both hers and the boys'. She stayed upstairs, forever fond of the kitchen. Hunger had crept up on her while she walked, and she decided to make a pot of something. She wasn't sure what it was quite yet. She just threw some things in a pot and brought it to a boil. It turned out to be similar to a Cream of Mushroom soup that she poured over the leftover risotto she made the other night.

After the rumbles were sated with an impromptu supper and a bottle of red wine she had stashed in the back of a cabinet, she lays down on the couch with the knit throw she's long left there. It was strange, she never brought it up there but it certainly was hers. And while she did sleepwalk on occasion she was never known to carry things while doing so. It had appeared after she fallen asleep in Sherlock's chair while she played ping pong with theories. She'd woken up on the couch the next morning with the soft red blanket draped over her. John had been at Sarah's that night.

It wasn't the first time something had happened like this. There was a few times when she'd fallen asleep at the desk or on one of the chairs and she woke up on the couch more often than not with Sherlock's comforter covering her and a pillow that smelled like him beneath her head. Sherlock always blamed John's wanting to tick him off since he just left her to lie wherever she was. Sometimes it was plausible. And then sometimes John was at a girlfriend's or Dublin with Harriet.

Anabeth promised herself that she'd never let herself read too much into to it. But now with her head cloudy with booze and nicotine (she had opted for a couple of patches instead and had hidden the cigarettes under the skull) she'd long forgotten the promise. Because what the hell? John was almost always gone. And those times he wasn't she'd thanked him or whatever and he'd stared at her like she was speaking Swahili and that first time she might have been…

She couldn't have done it in her sleep, well, she could, but it made much more sense for her to just climb into Sherlock's bed. Which she might have done and Sherlock just carried her from his bed and to the couch.

The thought was still swirling in her head as she fell asleep, long before anyone else arrived at the flat. She had sleepwalked too, into Sherlock's bedroom and climbed into the fresh sheets, and had she woken up she would've solved her mystery.

* * *

It was strange for her in the morning, to wake up in a stranger's bed with the sunlight from a window beating down on her eyelids making her headache spike. The hangover she possessed irked her, it'd been so long since she'd lost herself. And now she was impeded to small movements and little whispers.

She wasn't quite ready to face the day, and turned over to face the other body in the bed. She fell asleep before she even registered it. She did however register the absence of it the next time she woke a couple hours later. She also registered the fact that she'd slept in Sherlock's bed and that the body she'd been missing as she woke this morning was not the furry one of Blizzard at her feet but most likely the owner of the bed. Her head hurt a little less, but the hangover wasn't gone yet. She was able to open her eyes without the pain of her headache heightening.

She faintly wondered why she hadn't been moved like all those other nights. Or if she crawled in after the detective had fallen asleep.

The sound of a shower shut off behind the door she'd been staring at she had a moment of panic where she thought she might be called out in a less than pleasing way. But her fears (the word was strange to think) were put to rest when Sherlock walked out of the steamy bathroom in nothing but a fluffy white terrycloth towel and ignored her as he went to his closet.

Blizzard lifted her head and watched the man as her returned to the bathroom with a quick stop at his dresser. When the door was shut behind him Lizzy moved so she could stare at her companion and watch as the many faces of a confused Anabeth ghosted. The dog was still staring at the girl who herself was staring at the white door leading to the bathroom, when Sherlock returned to the bedroom.

There was a tiny smirk playing on his lips as he rounded the bed and made for the door leading to the hallway.

"I wouldn't spend all day in bed, Anabeth," he says pausing at the door. "Miss Becker-Hills is probably expecting a visit from you, John did say you would. And Madam Kiki from the lounge called, she expects you to be in early tonight. With the case over, there'll be a grand re-opening later this month. Though, I'd quit if I was you. Now she's just using you. You'll probably be the star of the show."

Anabeth blinks and she attempts to meet her fuzzy gaze with his. "What?"

"Lestrade phoned just before I showered. He has a case for us, apparently." His smirk became a touch more evil. "I'd love for you to join me, honey, sweetheart, darling, love of my life."

Anabeth rolled her eyes. "Okay, I deserved that."

"Damn skippy." He winks and snicks before he leaves and closes the door behind him.

"That's my line!" she calls after him.

There's a faint chuckle in response.

* * *

When she emerged a few moments later, Sherlock was already gone. Likely he'd just left, but the cup of coffee that sat on the counter told otherwise.

"The song you sang last night…"

She spun around to spy who she hoped was Sherlock; he was too far away for her to view him clearly. She didn't remember every taking her contacts out last night.

""Last First Kiss" Ron Pope, what of it?"

"The same song that played as you sang that dreadful lullaby the night prior."

"Oh? I did not notice." She moves to the counter to take up her mug before going to sit on the couch. "Did you not have a case to get to?"

"Only a six. John's on it."

Anabeth rolled her eyes. "I'm going home." She stands and takes to the kitchen again leaving the un-sipped coffee where she found it.

"You broke that night," he calls to her.

"I fell into your embrace and cried, yes I know." She gives him a smile that's too fake even for her. "Sentiment. I know. It is stupid. Good luck with your life, Mr. Holmes."

He tilts his head in confusion as she leaves down the stairwell.


	23. As The Winter Closes In

Anabeth was only gone for a few days, only spending the Thanksgiving holiday with her family and the following day with her sisters shopping for Christmas, which seemed to be rapidly approaching. She returned to England the day after. It was obvious that the short trip to America had re-centered her and in a way fixed her. And she returned to the same Anabeth Quinn she revealed to them just after that first case.

Well, almost.

It was the second day after she returned that John truly noticed the change in attitude. It's was subtle but still noticeable.

It was just a smile; a small tugging of the lips.

It wasn't that she never smiled. In or out of character, there was often a happy look to her mouth, but the always was an aura of falseness hidden behind porcelain teeth. Not that the smile ever looked fake, certainly it held just enough to look real. But this time…

This time it was  _real_. Her eyes shined with the mirth found in a childish glint previously missing. And she'd laughed; something akin to the sound from the palace though more bell like. The smile stayed even long after Sherlock had moved on to another topic. And even as she left them after finishing diner, a smile remained. He didn't blame her.

If Sherlock Holmes had blatantly complimented him, he'd have done the same.

* * *

Two brown-paper-wrapped packages sat on the table the next morning. On each a similar-looking note was gracefully inked onto the paper.

 _John,  
There is, in fact, a singular day that which friends and family set aside to celebrate your day of birth. And for every birthday there are exactly 364 (365 on leap years, unless you were born on February 29_ _th_ _then there's always 365) unbirthdays. Who says we can't celebrate those too? Have a very happy unbirthday!_  
Love, Anabeth

She'd given him a moleskin journal. Sherlock received a copy of  _Paper Towns_  by John Green. He'd seen Anabeth reading the same novel a few days before she left for America. There was symbolism there.

* * *

That night there were cupcakes with candles that sparked when lit. Red velvet with a raspberry cream cheese icing.

* * *

Sherlock found the gift the following morning. It was fairly obvious hanging next to the smiley above the couch. There was a sticky note stuck beneath the oil painting.

_I've always found Paris to be the most beautiful in the snow with a broken heart.  
Happy unbirthday, boys._

* * *

Mrs. Hudson found the next one, as she was "not housekeeping." In the fridge, a pair of hands, small and delicate. Pianist's hands. The girl's nails were still painted.

It's was terribly a Sherlock thing, so she left them alone, knowing how fussy he got when his things were touched. Sherlock passed behind her, on his way to the coffee pot. Her disgruntled sigh made him glance at her and into the fridge to see what experiment disgusted her this time.

The hands came as a shock. He'd never seen them, let alone experimented with them, though he could think of 645 experiments – make that 671 – he could do. A little smile danced across his lips as he reached over Mrs. Hudson and for the note held down by the plate.

_Did you know hobbits give presents on their birthdays? The also throw huge parties to which the entirety of the Shire and the surrounding lands are invited. I wonder if Gandalf will bring his fireworks this year…_

_There's a really crude joke to be made with hands here… I won't though._

_There's cake and ice cream and booze downstairs tonight, before I head to work. Molly will be there, and Lestrade, for whatever reason he was invited. And some girls from the Lounge, I did quit. Just by the way. Before I left for America._

_You and John are welcome to come. I'd really like it if you did._

_Happy birthday to me._

He chuckles and puts the note on the side of the fridge with Anabeth's little pink heart magnet she uses to hold new recipes as she cooks. For John to see of course.

* * *

John's gift was a knit jumper he found folded on his chair in his bedroom. Just a generic brown with a hand turkey stitched to the front.

 _Thanksgiving_ , the note read,  _is one of the only times my family gets together, where we all are under one roof. Sometimes I can be so American I annoy myself. Thought of you and your never ending sweater collection when I spied this, hope you like it._

_You remind me of a hobbit. Maybe it's just the height, or maybe I just have been watching too much_ _ Lord of the Rings _ _… They give things on their birthdays, unlike our world that just takes, takes, takes. Except I never really did. Not since I read_ _The Fellowship of the Ring_ _when I was six? I think. No I gave people things on my birthday, some were past books and toys I was given, and then I bought things for other people. I was always the weird child. I got "unbirthday presents" near my actually birthday. Ces't la vie._

_There'll be cake and ice cream at my place tonight. And booze. Ciao._

He shook his head as he tossed the sweater on the bed, it was kinda cute, and again he shook it when he placed the note on his dresser. He'd wear it tonight for cake and ice cream.

* * *

" _Happy birthday to you_ ," the choir of friends sang and a room lit by two candles. " _Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Anabeth. Happy birthday to you._ "

"Make a wish," someone shouted and Anabeth blew out the 29. There was applause as the room was drenched in darkness for the thirteen seconds it took someone to flip the light switch.

Anabeth smiles at the little group of friends. Most of them were meeting each other for the first time. And most of them had brought gifts that now covered the little sofa table pushed against the back of the couch. Despite what she'd told most of them the table was still full.

Cake was handed out and booze was sipped from, and before long half-drunk and completely intoxicated friends piled out. A few sober ones, namely Mrs. Hudson, John and Molly, stayed behind to help clean up just a bit. They left once the food and trash was dealt with.

Her sofa table was now covered with new novels, some she'd already read, cheap cheesy cards and gift certificates to various London shops. With a solemn grin, she stacks the books and sets them by the ever growing pile that did not get to be put on the full bookshelf next to it. The cards are arranged on the mantle above the fireplace, reminders of her lovely group of friends. The gift certificates and cards are placed in the bottom of an empty wicker basket on her kitchen table.

There's a soft knock on her apartment door before the sound of old hinges reach her ears. She glances over her shoulder to see Sherlock walking into her kitchen. "Hey," she says with a soft smile, "missed the party. Everyone just left."

"Obviously. I'm sure Alfie heard them in Langley."

Her lips twitch. "Did you just make a joke? Not that, you never make jokes. But just not often." She gives a little giggle.

He looks at her curiously. "You've been drinking."

"I did say there was booze. But this," she motions to herself, "is a combination of two glasses of wine, three ibuprofen, an acetaminophen, and anti-depressants. Quite a cocktail. I think."

He pulls a small, round, lavender box from his jacket and sets it on the sofa table. "Happy birthday, Christabella," he says before he turns to leave.

"Don't go," Anabeth calls to him.

He falters only slightly though he still takes to the stairs leading up to her door.

"Please. I don't want to be alone."

"You're never alone," he says cryptically as he disappears up the stairs.

With a heavy sigh, she follows the pitter-patter of Lizzy's paws as she heads to the bedroom.


	24. Everthing Seemed Make-Believe

**221c Baker Street**

" _Innocence didn't mean_  
We're immune to these things  
Let's blame the passage of time  
Love and loss  
Truth, it costs  
More than I can spare right now  
Maybe it's simpler to lie"

Anabeth's voice echoes up the stairs and to the open doorway. More often than not, this was the scene that greeted Sherlock; a drunken Anabeth that sang at the top of her lungs dancing with an invisible partner. It didn't suit her. She held more class than this. Though he would admit, he did like the personality of drunken Anabeth. She was much bubblier, not unlike the façade of Miss Ryder, just much more real.

The thought processes behind drinking always confounded Sherlock. There were a few that always came up. Obviously there's the addiction, the one who thinks they can't function properly without a pint or seven. Then there was the socialite who only drank a glass of wine or two at parties and gathering. And then there was the one who drank to forget why they were drinking and then suddenly they forget and then they drink to remember and the cycle just goes on and on and on.

And then there were the depressed, which Anabeth seemed to fit in quite nicely with, who drank to rid themselves of their depression. That fact alone was stupid. Alcohol was a depressant and only depressed the consumer further.

Though Anabeth was seemingly the opposite. Though she reeked of alcohol, had an impaired sense of judgment and balance, and slurred speech, as well as dilated pupils and a lack of coordination, all proof of her sudden vice for drinking, she was almost always cheery.

And he'd find her clinging to a bottle in her flat, singing most of the time, and dancing, sometimes he watches her paint. And he watched as her paintings went from some of the most photorealistic work even seen to a very whimsical rococo feel. And he thought that maybe he'd truly broken her, that their moment with her covered in naught but a fluffy white terrycloth towel and him pushing her far past her breaking point trying to get a few notes from her had possibly pushed her too far over the metaphysical edge. They were far past theoreticals and hypotheticals.

It sort of pained him, though he'd never admit to it, that he was the cause for this. Although, it was for naught. If he had been paying more attention to Anabeth and less attention to John and Mycroft and The Woman (who still held those photos), he would realize that the cause for Anabeth sudden demise was not of that night, though it certainly was a key player. But in fact, again had he paid her more attention; Sherlock would realize that his opposite was to blame. With her quitting her job at the burlesque lounge, she had more time to work her mark. She would often only be on Baker Street at nights, long enough to grab a few hours of sleep before she was off working little jobs for the Consulting Criminal.

When confronted she would blame herself, and she wouldn't be wrong, but it was the constant presence of an entity long forgotten, well entities, that brought her to this point.  _Emotions_. Those little buggers locked so far away had gotten loose. At least that's what she'd say, what  _everyone_  would say.

And he saw her now. For what she really was. The puzzle had finally come together, the last piece laid down.

Christabella was just a broken girl forced to fix herself too quick. She was too strong, too independent to allow anyone to help her. And now, she hid behind tragedy and masks, built walls to keep everyone out. The world of espionage was the perfect place for her after all. There was plenty of practice for her acting both on and off cases. Eventually she would've broke, almost everyone does, albeit differently. She knew this before applying. But it would only add to the charm. And everyone would blame the CIA and her superiors, not the already cracked vessel.

She had finally broken. It wasn't like anyone expected. Maybe they all thought her to go rogue and double cross everyone. Or maybe she'd become an assassin; she had no qualms when she had to pull the trigger.

But she wouldn't, she couldn't. She wasn't a monster.

She was just a broken girl with a mask…

"Sherlock," Anabeth calls up to him, having watched the inner monologue pass over his face. "Come 'n' dance with me. I need a partner."

"You're drunk," he states. That's always his excuse. Never anything else.

She holds up her thumb and forefinger with only a little space between them. "I can still dance. With you," she adds.

"Anabeth," but he doesn't have an argument.

She climbs the stairs, stumbling only once, and takes his hand. Her fingers laced automatically in the spaces made for them. "Then just come 'n' talk with me. We never talk."

He tilts his head slightly, "We talk every morning."

"We say 'Good Mornin''every mornin'. But we never just talk." She frowns and tugs on his hand slightly, "Please? Even if it's just 'bout the case you're workin' on."

His resolve dissipates and he relents. Her opinion always helped him more than John's did.

* * *

It happened after Anabeth had rambled on about how poisoning was more common with female killers than male and it was most often a woman when poison was used, it was the most passive was to kill someone, but most men often forgot that because of some stupid power complex-

He wasn't above physically shutting her up, not that he'd ever hit her, but he had on occasion or two placed his hand over her mouth gently when his usual shouting of her name didn't work. Maybe it was their close proximity, or maybe it was because one of them was drunk, or maybe it was because of the "obvious sexual tension" (John's words) between them, or maybe it was just his elation at his case-solving epiphany, but none of his normal shutting-up methods came to mind as he shouted "Thank-you, Anabeth."

He did physically silence her, just with a kiss. Nothing too extreme. It was naught but a simple pressing of lips to lips and it was over as soon as it was started. There was a short brief moment in which blue-green met icy blue while time caught up with them before lips met once again.

This interlocking of lips lasted only long enough for Sherlock to come completely to himself and shove Anabeth away from him.

"You're drunk," he says.

She nods, her eyes closed against the tears that were already welling. "I know," she says and repeats it like a mantra. "I know. You can't… Emotions…" Her eyelids open to reveal pastel colored, contact-less, nearly blinded eyes.

Sherlock doesn't say anything else as he stands and gathers his coat and scarf.

"Shallow at best," Anabeth breathes as she watches him leave.

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

She's completely sober, unlike the night before, the next night as she slaves over a pot of red sauce. There's a pot of salted water beside the one she's stirring that's almost to boiling.

"So she lives," John states behind her.

She smiles and turns around. "Yeah, sorry. New job, new schedule. Needed a little bit to myself as well."

"Can't blame you there." He sighs and grabs a couple of plates from the cabinet. "Sherlock's been a leech as of late."

"Moriarty," Anabeth says as an explanation, emptying a box of pasta into the pot of water, "Mycroft has me doing all sorts of surveillance and I am sure Sherlock has caught on to his brother's antics."

John nods. He can see the tensing of Anabeth's shoulders as she mentions his flatmate. "What did he do?"

"Who?" Anabeth asks with a faux curious tone to her voice.

John shakes his head. "You know who."

"Mycroft?"

He rolls his eyes. "Anabeth, avoidance does not work for you."

"He did not do anything."

"You called him Sherlock," He points out. "I might not be the world's only consulting detective, but I'm around you enough to know you only call him Sherlock when your annoyed by him-"

"I am not annoyed by him. I do not get annoyed."

"-or when you two have a moment."

"We do not have 'moments'."

"Yes you do," John argues. "When you say the same thing at the same time, you share this little moment. I never know if you're going to strangle each other or if you're going to- you know, snog the other."

Anabeth gives a heartless chuckle. "I can assure you it will never be the latter. He has made it clear."

John smirks. "So you did have a moment!"

"You sound so proud of yourself," she says with heavy sarcasm.

"That's not a denial."

She sighs heavily and slams her wooden spoon on the counter. "Okay,  _fine_. Yes, we had a 'moment'. He came to my flat last night. I was on a sugar and caffeine high. Sherlock thought I was drunk and I played along. I wanted him to dance with me but he wouldn't so I talked him into talking and it got awkward at one point so I started rambling like I do. Apparently he had an epiphany and in order to shut me up he kissed me. And it wasn't just a peck on the lips. I mean it was. At first. But then it wasn't."

"Sherlock kissed you?" John questioned with a layer of confusion and disbelief. "Our Sherlock?"

"Is there any other?"

"Seriously?"

Anabeth nods, a crease between her brows. "Yeah, and then he just pushed me away and told me I was drunk. And I sort of had this emotional attack and just… He's a sociopath. He doesn't have feelings like you. Or me," she admits. "His are shallow at best. But I could've sworn I saw  _something_  as he pushed me away. But I dunno."

John gives a small smile. It's a smile that says "Sorry my flatmate's an ass" and "Finally!"

"He thought you were drunk," he repeats to her. "He might have shallow emotions, but he's not going to use you like that. I don't think he knows what to do if you weren't."

Anabeth shakes her head. "He's not as naive as you think with romance. He just doesn't do it. There's no pleasure in it for him. He understands love. Perhaps too much."

"How do you know that?" John asks with a hint of cynicism.

She shrugs. "I am the same way."


	25. Meaning-Meaningless

**221c Baker Street**

"I didn't realize you weren't going home for Christmas."

Anabeth looked up from where she was wrapping presents on the floor in front of her couch. She gives the detective a tiny smirk that shows no emotion. He was always in her flat now. Or her in his. Though they rarely spoke.

"John's just informed me. Sentiment – family," Sherlock says with an air of confusion."It means a lot to you, so why...?" he trails off.

"Christmas is..." she says pausing in her ministrations, "not a good time to be home. It is full of forced smiles, lies, and everyone pretending they love each other. There is relentless nit-picking in the form of teasing and overly truthful drunken admitting. And as much as I enjoy seeing my nieces and nephews and Alfie and the part of the family that doesn't tick me off, I can't it deal with that. Not right now." She smiles up at him a bright smile on her face, though her eyes are clouded with misery. "Surely you must understand. Being the youngest and all."

"Of course," he agrees noncommittally. His mind is already searching through the palace, wondering why it bugged him so much, as he retreats up the stairs.

It's not until he's laid on the couch for a good long while does he realize just what it was.

* * *

**221b Baker Street  
** _**Christmas Eve** _

" _We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year._ "

Sherlock and Anabeth share a look as they both give a small bow. Sherlock's is a bit more snide, giving that Anabeth had stolen the metaphorical spotlight as she hummed the lyrics coming up the stairs. Mrs Hudson had given her a look that prompted Anabeth to sing fully.

"Lovely!" the landlady exclaims. "That was lovely."

"Marvelous," John says as he walks past with a cuppa for Mrs. Hudson.

"I wish you could have worn the antlers," Mrs Hudson continues.

"Somethings are better left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock tells her.

Anabeth perks up. "Wait. There were antlers?" She gives her neighbor a cheeky grin. "Oh Holmes, not everything is better left up to imagination."

Sherlock heaves a silent sigh as he turns towards John's girlfriend. "Oh, no thank you Sarah."

"Ah, no no no no," John says trying to come to the rescue. "He's not good with names."

"Ain't that the truth. He gets my name wrong all the time, Jeanette. Nothing to get your feathers ruffled over," Anabeth speaks up.

Sherlock turns to her. "I've never gotten your name wrong."

"He calls me Christabella," Anabeth continues without missing a beat. "Where on my birth certificate can you see the name Christabella? My name has been Anabeth Ellis Ryder since the day I was born."

He rolls his eyes a John leads Jeanette away from the detective. "Oh dear lord."

"Hello everybody," Molly says as she enters the room. "It said, on the door just to come up."

A round of hello's and wonderful to see you's echo through the small room as Molly slips out of her coat. There's exclamations of awe as Molly's gown is revealed.

"I told you you'd look stunning in that dress," Anabeth says as she hugs her friend.

"Having a Christmas drinkies then?" Molly says as she pulls away.

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me so it's almost worth it," Mrs. Hudson explains.

"John?"

The doctor moves to look over Shelock's shoulder at the laptop.

"The count on your blog, it still says 1,895."

"No," John breathes sarcastically. "Christmas is canceled."

"You got a photograph of me wearing that hat?" Sherlock wonders.

"People like the hat," John answers.

"You look adorable in that hat," Anabeth calls over.

"No they don't. What people?"

Anabeth raises her hand from where is rests beside her on the couch. "Me. I'm one of those people."

Sherlock meets her icy eyes hidden behind red-rimmed, rectangular lenses. She returns the almost unnoticeable smirk he gives her.

"How's the hip?" Molly asks of Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh it's atrocious," the woman replies. "But thanks for asking."

"Oh I've seen much worse. But then I do postmortems." Molly's eyes widen when she realizes what she says. "Oh god, sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly." Sherlock says glancing at the girl briefly.

Lestrade hands Molly a glass of red wine. Anabeth smiles as she sips her own glass.

"I wasn't expecting you to be here," She says to Greg. "I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas."

"Oh that's first thing in the morning," he explains. "Me and the wife, we're back together. It's all sorted."

"No she's sleeping with the PE teacher," Sherlock says.

"And John," she says turning toward said man. "I hear you're off to you sisters, Sherlock and Anabeth were complaining," she shakes her head slightly. "Saying."

"First time ever she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze," John says raising his glass slightly.

"Nope," Sherlock says with emphasis on the p.

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignores him choosing instead to deduce Molly's appearance. "See you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

Molly nearly chokes on her wine. "Sorry, what?"

"In fact you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

"Take a day off," John mumbles.

"Shut up and have a drink," Lestrade says as he sets a tumbler down on the table beside the laptop.

"Holmes," Anabeth says warningly replacing her glass on the coffee table. "Don't start."

"Surely you've all seen the present on the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow? All the others are slapdash at best." The detective stands from his seat and buttons his blazer. "Must be someone special then." He grabs the present he was speaking of with a cocky smirk on his lips.

"Sherlock," Anabeth growls as she stands.

"The shade of red echoes her lipstick. Either an unconscious decision or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage."

Anabeth's quick to leap over the table and land on the balls of her feet, pirouetting the rest of her momentum out.

"Either way Miss Hooper's got lo-"

Anabeth only has to take three sure steps before she reaches Sherlock and it takes less than a second for her to go on tiptoes and capture his lips with hers.

Sherlock's eyes are wide when she backs away.

"Thank you," she growls. "Seriously, we were havin' such a wonderful holiday until you had to open your big fat mouth." She faces Molly, the glare on her face lessening. "Molly, Sweetheart, care to help me with my own gifts downstairs?"

Molly's mouth, previously agape, snaps shut and she gives a curt nod.

Anabeth smiles brightly. "Perfect."

* * *

**221c Baker Street**

"It meant nothing," Anabeth says the moment they're alone. "The kiss meant nothing. I mean it meant something separately to both of us, but not like what everyone thought. I mean it's pretty much just payback from when his did the same to me."

"Sherlock kissed you?" Molly's voice was full of both surprise and something akin to contempt.

Anabeth glanced back at her as she unlocked her door. "Well, yeah. But it meant nothing too. Just like that one. I was rambling on about something trying to keep an awkward aura from settling in, like I am now, and suddenly he just shouted "Thank-you, Anabeth!" and kissed me. But that was it. Well, he kinda like grabbed my arms and threw himself in to the little peck. But it was just to shut me up. Just like that kiss was just to shut him up."

"So that's what you do? You just kiss each other to silence the other?" Molly wonders as she follows Anabeth into her lounge.

"Well, no. We generally don't shut each other up. Not unless we go on tangents about not important things. Well mainly I just go on tangents about not important things and he shuts me up." Anabeth winces as she catches the tearful look on Molly's face. "I'm not helping am I? Sorry."

Anabeth sighs as she starts to gather presents. "Pretty much anything with a bow on it is a gift for the group upstairs. The rest I have to mail back home."

They're silent for a moment as they place the presents in to a large gift bag Anabeth produced from a closet somewhere. Molly's the first one to speak, picking up a small ring box from its place on the sofa table.

"Who's this to?" She asks. "Or from?" she corrects after spotting the silver engraving in the lavender patent leather.

Anabeth looks over from where she was sitting on the couch. "I dunno," she says. "Never seen it bef-" but as soon as the words left her mouth she knew otherwise. She flips to kneel on the cushions with a curious look on her face. She reaches her hand out. "Can I see?"

Molly places the small round box on her friend's palm.

Anabeth's mind is calculating as she gently opens the lid, her thumb brushing the silver lettering spelling out her middle name on the top. She barely remembers receiving this particular gift on the night she held her birthday party. It was after everything. She hadn't gotten a chance to open it before she rushed off to her new job (as a bartender, just something to tie her over while she waits for her piano lessons started. She was the teacher, not the student.) and honestly she'd forgotten about it until this moment.

Now she was afraid to open it. Because honestly, anything "gift-like" that came to mind that could fit into the small container she possessed now, was completely marked off the list considering the giver wasn't exactly sentimental and his idea of a gift varied greatly from hers. And for that reason, she squinted her eyes. Well, it was more of her fighting to keep them open. Despite the promising sign of  _Anabeth_  sketched into the top.

A gasp and a nearly shouted "Oh my god," filled the air when the lid was completely opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite an abstract chapter. And they really sorta all are from here on out. Ana's in a very dark place. Or well, maybe it's a very bright place. Not entirely sure myself at this point about the ratio of light to dark.
> 
> And now we're all caught up with everyone.


	26. Don't Call This Love

The descent into insanity, in whatever form it maybe, is dark and lonely. There's nothing surrounding you. Nothing but washed out gray blobs that might be something if the tears didn't sting so badly. They pass by without a care. None stop to see if you're fine. The too salty tears leave behind puffy cheeks, blacked trails and demonic eyes.

Madness isn't just a thing. It's alive. It eats away at the resolve holding you together bit by bit until you stumble and fall into the dark abyss looming ominously below. It takes you then. Slowly wrapping inky tendrils around every bit of you, pulling and tugging and ripping until you drown in the sheer darkness. Innocence and Guilt creep up on you and beat you down until there's nothing left but a bloody mess. Poise comes along then, scoops you up and molds you into something reminiscent of what you once were and tosses you back into the world.

And the process repeats until Depression moves in and then you're stuck in the grasp of those wisps until the end. Seldom is this truly escaped.

In Anabeth's opinion, love is a lot like this. Actually, love is exactly like this. Except, everything is too vibrant. The good outshines the bad, and everything is too innocent. It takes you with its too warm grasp and holds you until you succumb to the numbing brightness you see in that person you've so unluckily fallen in love with. It pulls and it tugs and it rips at your emotions and your heartstrings playing a melody that's hypnotizing to only you. This is the longest part.

This is the part where everything is good. The honeymoon phase is over. Things have gotten into a rhythm you've fallen in love with. Things are great.

And then, your heartstring breaks. And seldom can it be restrung. It's torn forever. And the marks and scars it have left remain healing for an eternity. And by the end of that eternity you've become so numb to the world, it all looks the same. Just grayish blobs.

Every now and then there are splashes of color that pass by and reach for it desperately. But it slips through your fingers and dissipates in to a puff of smoke. You can't catch smoke.

And then, by some miracle, there they are. That one person that can heal your heart and you chase them and you chase them and you chase them but to no avail. But they stay. They stay unlike the last one. Unlike all those little wisps. Here they are solid and real and they're here to stay.

But sometimes they aren't always there forever. Things happen, fate intervenes, life is unfair once again. And there's someone, Pride, or Poise, or Confidence, that come and sweeps you up and tapes you back together.

But only some times, not all the time.

Anabeth can count on one had the number of times she's fallen in love. It's a good thing, considering she's only just past the third decade of her life.

Perhaps she's loathe to say it now, because under no circumstances are her feelings reciprocated. Unrequited love seems to be a theme here.

* * *

Before he left, Alfie had stopped by wanting to talk to Sherlock without Anabeth near. And why he was only just thinking about this now, he had no idea, but there was a suspicion that it had something to do with the Claddagh ring now resting on Anabeth's right hand, the tanzanite heart pointing towards her wrist.

Alfie's voice had been gentle, soft, like he was telling a secret that wasn't his to tell. And truthfully it wasn't.

"Ana," he began, with a deep sigh. "About six years ago, something happened. It wasn't anything bad, really. But it's not something Anabeth will ever talk about, she refuses to. Sure she'll talk about Jim and their messed up break up and that whole shebang, but I think deep down she realizes she's truly over it. But six years ago...

"She was finally getting over Payton's death, and yeah I know that's why she didn't sing, that it wasn't anything to do with her being left at the altar. But for the first time in three years, her smile had reached her eyes. There was feeling behind what she said. We were all finally relieved. She still wasn't big on family events, though she attended, albeit from afar. But she was there."

Alfie's blue eyes flicker up to Sherlock, who finally turned from his microscope and looked at the brother.

"We have this huge Fourth of July celebration down in Georgia. It's this big four day ordeal, our Labor Day is just as big. Normally everyone gets in on the last day of June and then just straight party for four days before leaving on the fifth. Anabeth decided that year she was going to be part of the scene again. She got completely  _wasted_  that first night, which is incredibly hard to do considering she's a quarter Irish and half..." he shakes his head like he can't recall, "and the second but didn't touch a drop the next day.

"Actually, she didn't do anything the next day. Just sat on the hood of her Camaro and watched us at the picnic in Savannah. Met a guy at said picnic, traveled with him for about a year. She was on shore leave at the time, so it wasn't a big deal. But one day, she showed up on Mom and Dad's doorstep in Georgetown and didn't leave except to go on her, what second tour? And then Dad pulled some stings and she was honorably discharged and the rest you know. Or at least know as much possible without being an enemy of the State.

"I'm not telling you this," Alfie says leaning forward, "because I like you and I think you and Ana would make beautiful babies. God knows neither of you are ready for  _that_  kind of relationship. And I'm not telling you to make you jealous. I'm telling you because I can see how much she vexes you, and if you're going to be the one that figures her out and finally puts her together, then you need to know.

"When she was with Dean," the blonde shakes his head, "she was the happiest I'd even seen her like  _ever_. I think it had to with the lack of boundaries she had then, the whole no modesty thing for a while. There was no secrets between them. I don't think I'd ever seen any two people more in love. But they weren't good for each other. Far from it. They kinda just drank from each other, stole the other's happiness, a Thelma and Louise kinda deal. "I'll hold your hand, you hold mine, and we'll drive off the cliff into the sunset."

"She doesn't talk about that year, and I doubt she ever will. But what happened then, is happening again. With you." Alfie sighs deeply again. "I know you care for my sister. Not like she cares for you, and she does care for you. But I can see it in your face that she means something. She relies too much on other people. That's what went wrong five years ago, and nine years prior to that. But I think that if you just pretended you lo-"

"You want me to play your sister?" Sherlock sneered. In his defense, Sherlock had listened to every word that dripped from the American man's mouth trying to figure out where this monologue was heading before it got there. And his heart had been clenched to moment he realized what Alfie was getting at. He wasn't above using a woman to get information, he'd done it plenty of times. But what Alfie was asking... It was like twisting a knife in an old would. Or spreading the wings of an angel only to pluck them one feather at a time.

... _Where did that analogy come from?_

"No," the brother says, a slight desperation in his voice. "No. I'd never-"

"You're asking me to pretend I have feelings Christabella when in fact I do not."

"When you put it that way..."

"How would you say it then?" Sherlock wonders with contempt weaved into his voice.

"Look, I just want my Ana back. It's been fourtee-"

"How. Would you. Say it?" the detective repeats.

"Just, pretend or rather, just show her more affection than you would normally. You don't have to pretend anything. Please. I just. She needs that push."

"And when she realizes all of it's a lie?" He raises a brow. "What then?"

"I don't know," Alfie says honestly. "I just- she needs it. And you can help her."

"I think, Mr. Browning, it's best if you take your leave now."

Alfie leaves, glancing at the detective before he turned the corner.

Sherlock returned to his experiment. However, he found himself unable to concentrate for any long period of time. His thoughts continually drifted over the conversation, however one-sided it was. It was no illusion, the churning in his stomach. Alfie's words had left a bad taste in his mouth. But in essence he was only looking out for the youngest sibling's welfare.

Maybe that was the reason he found himself standing in front of a jewelry counter admiring the work on a Claddagh ring accented with a tanzanite heart. Probably also the reason he found himself in Tiffany and Co. the night before Christmas Eve.

But then what was to account for the fluttering in his chest when he spotted the ring (right hand, heart pointed toward wrist, "someone's captured her heart") and the fine white gold chain (she was allergic to sterling silver but found yellow gold tacky despite the cross she wore) of the locket he gave her (it replaced the old one, he noted)?


	27. You Give Love A Bad Name

**221c Baker Street**

It had been three days after Christmas that Anabeth had first heard of Irene Adler's death. And, well, technically, she hadn't even heard of it, she stumbled upon the phone and deduced. So that was the reason behind the depressing music. Interesting to know.

It was beyond infuriating.

It would take three more days for Anabeth to grab her own violin, stuck in the back of her closet, and head for the flat above hers. The familiar weight of the instrument in her hand, as she climbs the stairs, was comforting.

She needs both hands to count the number of instruments she's classically trained in, the number's closer to fifteen when taken into account the handful of other instruments she's learnt to play over the years. However, the number of instruments Anabeth actually enjoyed playing could be summed up on one, classically trained or not.

On her way up, she passes a frustrated John on his way down.

"You play?" he asks.

She shrugged. "Yeah, classically trained since I was six or so. That and about seven other instruments."

"And you expect him to let you join?"

Anabeth chuckles. "Not at all, I plan on showing him just how annoying a constant stream of sad violin music is. As if I'm not depressed enough."

"Well, good luck with your perpetual duet," John says as he continues down.

"I will, thanks."

Sherlock hadn't noticed her presence as she set about readying her instrument, or maybe he was just ignoring her.

Having heard most of the composition already three or four times that morning alone (the beginning at least), she wasn't hesitant to join in when the detective started up again.

After that, Sherlock just stared at the spook, music frozen, for the first time in six days. His eyes were drawn to his ring - her ring (left hand, toward the wrist,  _married_ ). Her eyes, which smiled up at him as she slowly transitioned from his piece to something that could only be described as  _completely Anabeth_ , were not enhanced by coloured contacts, nor were they hindered by a pair of glasses as he had seen a few times previous.

His stomach tightened for some ungodly reason, feeling like it flipped completely upside-down. Perhaps he was getting sick.

A glance out the window saw his blogger getting into a car with his brother's fetcher.

He doesn't excuse himself before he leaves .

Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway to the kitchen, pausing in her "not housekeeping", a knowing smirk dancing on her lips. Anabeth only smiles back. She had to work late today.

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

She made dinner that night; pork and sauerkraut, although the meal was hardly touched. No one had proper appetites after what happened with Mrs. Hudson. Anabeth managed to have an hours long conversation with her father about keeping his priorities straight and have his men go after her landlady, to which he promptly replied that they weren't his men but he'd look into it. Miss Adler's lack of death was also jolting to all the in habitants. Hardly surprising though, considering her allegiances.

John made his way to bed shortly after one, leaving the other two completely alone for the first time since perhaps they shared that first kiss. The last of their celebratory bottle of Mercoletti Champagne being passed between them. Eventually the bottle was emptied, and the black haired girl made to leave, the unresolved tension bustling between them proving too much for her to handle in her drunken state.

Yet Sherlock had stopped her with, in hindsight, the very worst thing to ask at that moment. Or any moment he'd eventually realize.

"Who's Dean?"

Anabeth froze, the half empty flute slipping from her hand and shattering by her feet, covering her canvas shoes in the sticky liquid. "Pardon?" she asks. Her voice is hollow and a mere echo of what she had been like a month ago.

"Dean," he repeated, his inhibited mind too drunken to realize he should stop. "Who was he? Alfie had-"

" _HE TOLD YOU_?!" Her dark hair halos around her as she turns sharply to him and for a split second, it looks as if her eyes glow with a bright grayish light. But he blinks and it's gone. "Imma kill him. I swear to all things good and holy, I will fucking kill that sorry sonovabitch."

She shouts a nondescript shout that echoes through the small flat and causes Sherlock to jump slightly.

Turning her glare to the detective, she aims one perfectly manicured finger at him.

_When did she get so close?_

"Dean was - is nothing - no one," she growls. "And if you value your life, you will never  _ever_  mention him again!" She storms away, the glass crunching under her shoes. "You would be wise as to not listen to my family. They do not know me. They know  _nothing_  about  _anything_  when it comes to me. And neither will  _you_."

She disappears down the stairs. Actually if he hadn't heard the door slam shut below, he would've sworn she just vanished.

Down below, a scream of anger and hurt rips through the basement apartment as a priceless antique vase is smashed to the floor. The bouquet of orchids lying in the ruins.

* * *

**221c Baker Street**

After successfully avoiding the whole of Baker Street for a week; which wasn't very hard, since the only three inhabitants had been uncharacteristically frightened by the bout of anger in the early hours of New Years Day; Anabeth had found herself in such a familiar dark place, cocooning herself in her comforter for the majority of the time.

It was that seventh day, it's always the seventh day, that she rose, finally giving into the hunger pinging in her stomach. She only snacked though, just enough to take the edge of pain away before she crawled back into bed hiding under the covers.

The only sound in the apartment was her breathing, making her wish that at least Lizzy was still with her.

* * *

She wasn't looking for it. Promise she wasn't. She was looking for something to get a fix. Of course she wasn't leaving the apartment, there was no way she could face the world right now.

But she found it nonetheless.

It wasn't anything spectacular. Just an old scuffed up jewel case with a green CD. There was writing on it, illegible now. But she didn't have to read it to know what it said. She'd long memorized the note taped on the inside.

Her laptop stared mockingly at her from its spot on her bed.

She shouldn't, she really shouldn't.

It was only going to amount in more heartbreak and a deeper depression.

_Christbella Anabeth Donatella Wayah Elizabeth Quinn-Moriarty, do NOT under any circumstances play that CD._

* * *

" _Don't stop believing  
_ _Hold on to that feeling  
_ _Streetlights, people, oh_ "

Well, fuck.

* * *

_**First motel off the highway, Truth Or Consequences, NM  
** _ _**5 years ago** _

_"Chris?" a deep voice calls from the main portion of the room. "Why is our bed covered in black feathers?"_

_"I got in a fight with a raven," came the snarky feminine reply._

_Dean chuckled. "And what? You wanted to make a pillow?"_

_Blue eyes peer out of the bathroom to the slightly older man sitting on the bed. "How the hell should I know? I've been with you the entire time, babe."_

_"Don't you think it's weird it's just our bed, though?" he wonders as he twirls one perfect charcoal plume between his fingers. "And it's more on your side than mine."_

_Anabeth smirked. "Oh so, now we have sides."_

_"Chris seriously. There are feathers on our bed that weren't there this morning," Dean complains._

_"Complain to the cleaning lady."_

_"Chris!"_

_"Dean!" she shouts back with and exasperated giggle._

_"You know-"_

_"Yeah, yeah," she waves her hand flippantly as she walks out of the bathroom, finally ready for their dinner date that night. "We don't let the cleaning crew in. That just means we're left to something supernatural," she says with a small teasing smile, her eyes going comically wide."_

_"Don't even joke about shit like that."_

_"Angel's have feathers," the Marine tells a little too seriously, her hand going to rest where her two necklaces disappeared beneath the neck of her dress._

_"Angels don't exist," Dean refutes too harshly._

_"Yeah, right." The joy of dating an atheist. "Let's just go to dinner. I'll clean this up after, yeah?"_

_Dean only nods, his mossy green eyes glancing at the hurt Anabeth was trying to hide._

* * *

**221c Baker Street, London  
Present Day**

" _Someday love will find you  
_ _Break those chains that bind you  
_ _One night will remind you  
_ _How we touched  
_ _And went our separate ways_ "

Why? Just make it stop.

* * *

_**First motel off the highway, Truth Or Consequences, NM** _

_**5 years ago** _

_"There isn't any proof, Chris. You show me proof and I'll believe."_

_Anabeth only rolled her eyes as she slipped out of her dress and into the bed, ignoring the feathers. They were soft against her skin anyway._

_Hours later, both lie awake, facing away from the other. Neither knew the other was awake._

_Dean turns over and hugs her close, sighing into her messy black hair._

_"I'm sorry, Chris," he says softly. "I hurt you today. But in my defense I realized something today and it concerned me. I wanted to push you away, which is stupid because I don't know what I would do without you. This past year has been amazing with you. I love you, Christabella. It fucking scares me but I really do." He chuckles softly. "You probably won't ever know, cause I'll probably won't ever be able to tell you when you're awake."_

_Anabeth waited until he was asleep before she left._

* * *

_Dean,_  
I love you, too. I can't even face it properly. I'm sorry. I hope you find your angel.  
-Chris

* * *

**221c Baker Street, London  
** **Present Day**

" _Didn't mean to make you cry,_  
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow,  
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little further into Ana's background with Dean. And her secret love for Classic Rock. Okay not so secret. After all, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.


	28. Climbing Out The Back Door

**221b Baker Street**

Gratefully, or not so, depending on who you asked, Baker Street had managed to be Anabeth-Free for months. But that also meant there was a lack of a bubbly atmosphere that had permeated the whole of the building and a lack of home cooked meals. No one had noticed.

Actually, maybe John was the only one that really didn't notice Anabeth's absence.

Of course Mrs. Hudson had noticed, being the landlady and all. And Sherlock had, only because after a week or two he'd wandered down to the basement to bounce ideas off of the little brunette that lived there, only to find the apartment completely bare save for the kitchen appliances and the mural painted on the living room wall.

It wasn't until Sherlock complained about the lack of smart in the flat, did John realize just how long it had been since he'd seen their American friend.

* * *

**Townhouse somewhere in London**

The whole flat smelled of cigarette smoke.

Cigarette smoke, cinnamon and cheap red wine.

The air felt nice though.

A biting cold that numbed.

She couldn't even feel the silk of the robe that hung loosely on her all too skinny form.

Music drowned out any thoughts she could possibly have.

Christabella Quinn-Moriarty was  _depressed_.

And her husband, for the first time in fourteen years, if not  _ever_ , was  _genuinely worried for her_.

* * *

**St. Bart's Hospital**

"Is that a phone?" Molly wonders as she watches Sherlock work. She was always watching him.

"It's a camera phone," the detective replies.

The pathologist leans against the table. "And you're x-raying it?"

"Yes, I am."

"Whose phone is it?"

"A woman's."

"Your girlfriend's?"  _Oh, god. I hope not_ , she thinks. "Anabeth?"

Sherlock picks his gaze up, sneaking a sly glance to his company. "You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?"

"Well," she says standing straighter, her face starting to tinge a pale pink. "You've done stranger things."

"Yes," he agrees, and Molly feels her heart drop into her stomach.

"But all people do silly things," she says.

"They do, don't they?" He had that quirky "Yes! If figured it out!" kind of smile as he spins around and retrieves the phone. "She sent this to my address... and she loves to play games."

He makes quick work of typing "221b" into the password entry only to be denied.

"She does?" Molly asks worriedly.

Well, it was Anabeth. There was really no telling what the girl was into. Although she was quite confident in most things, there were times where she seemed quite... well, there was no other way to describe it but  _submissive_.

Sherlock sets the phone on the table with a sharp movement. Well, set was a calm word.

With a heavy sigh, he returns to his seat and continues his analysis.

* * *

**Townhouse somewhere in London**

The music that echoes through the small home was scratchy, a tell that Anabeth had left the current century and started rifling through her record collection. Her voice harmonizes with Denise LaSalle's perfectly and he's struck by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.

Jim didn't go into the study where he knew she'd be thrown across the wing-back chair, a glass of red wine in one hand and a cigarette. He loathed to think of the mess she'd made of the room no doubt with books strewn about the room and cigarette ash adding to the mess.

There was already a burn mark on the old oak table in the kitchen from when she'd forgotten about her cigarette a moment too long.

He would have already had her killed, Sebastian was just aching to do it himself, but he still needed her, although regrettably not in this perpetual drunken state, and, again regrettably, he might still actually  _like_  her.

This was beyond ridiculous.

* * *

**Text Messages Between Sherlock Holmes and Christabella Quinn**

We have a case. SH

**You. AQ**

What? SH

**You. You have a case. I have a bottle of dune calling my name. AQ**

**Wine** AQ**

You're drunk. SH

**Very astute deduction, Mr. Holmes. AQ**

**I'm not helping you witch your little lover. AQ**

**With** AQ**

You've been assigned this case. SH

**I'm sorry, who are you again? AQ**

**Right, not the boss of me. AQ**

**I'll just be hanging up now. AQ**

My brother assigned you to this case. SH

He is the boss of you. He is quite literally your boss. SH

You can't hang up a text message. SH

**Watch me. AQ**

Must I call Alfie and inform him of your current situation? SH

**That fucker doesn't give a shit about me. If he did, he wouldn't have told you about Dean. AQ**

I doubt that's true. He's very concerned about you. SH

**Besides, he'd probably too busy fucking his husband. AQ**

**That sounds like fun. AQ**

**Jim Dear, let's fuck. AQ**

**Oopsie. XD Wrong number. AQ**

**Although, I would not mind if you fucked me. AQ**

**Excuse my French. AQ**

* * *

**Text Messages Between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder**

Anabeth, what did you do. JW

**Um... no one, yet. I texted the wrong per dim. AQ**

**Person** AQ**

**Texting is very hard when drunk. AQ**

Oh. Well, that would explain it. JW

**Explain what? AQ**

Sherlock's poor mood. JW

**I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset anybody. AQ**

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

"Oh come  _on!_ " the exclamation is loud compared to the quite that had settled over the flat. And for that John is grateful, because if he had to endure one more moment of those two eye-fucking each other, he was going to scream.

"That's not even remotely fun... I dunno, carvin' my heart out with a spoon would be more fun... We all remember the last time I went to Savannah, as you've so kindly reminded. I'm not goin' again, least of all because Grandpa Quinn wants to take me huntin' for old time's sake. It's not gunna to happen," Anabeth sneers although with a slight slur as she walks into the lounge. "Alfie, I love ya 'n' all but I'm not goin' onna hunt. So, you and gramps can take it and shove where the sun don't shine."

She angrily mashes the button on the screen ending the call before looking up at the trio staring at her.

She raises on perfectly groomed brow. "What? Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"I thought you were too drunk to help with my case," Sherlock says pointedly.

Anabeth shrugs. "I was - I am. My husband kicked me out until I sobered up. At least that's what he said. Pretty sure he just wants to bring his boyfriend over. Seb and I don't really get along."

"The wife rarely does get on with the mistress."

"There was a man," Adler says with disdain trying to get the attention back to her, "an MOD official, I knew, well, I-"

"Knew what he liked? Yes we've heard," Anabeth says snidely glaring at the other woman.

"One of the things he liked was showing off," The Woman continues as if the American hadn't spoken. "He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it."

Sherlock takes the phone Adler handed to him.

"He was a bit tied up at the time."

Anabeth snorted. "Tied up, right."

"It's a bit small on that screen. Can you read it?"

"Yes," Sherlock says as he sits.

"Code obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country look at it, though he was mostly upside down, as I recall."

John's head snaps to Irene in surprise.

Anabeth snorted once more. "And you thought  _I_  was a prostitute. I'm pretty vanilla in bed." She glances at Sherlock who was staring at the phone intently. Her inhibited brain doesn't quite catch what Irene says when she's not paying attention. She does notice how the woman is leaning on the back of the detective's chair and leaning into Sherlock's space to press a kiss to his cheek.

She feels herself frown and she's suddenly warmer than the wine had made her. She right about to ask if she had any wine left here when Sherlock speaks.

"There's a margin for error. But I'm pretty sure there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment..." His voice drifts off into a mumbling that Anabeth can't understand as she stumbles into the kitchen looking to see if there was any alcohol there at all.

Luckily, for her at least, she found a bottle of white zinfandel from her family's vineyard, only a glass of the pinkish liquid missing. Her wine glass, her favorite one with  _Mercoletti Vigneti_  printed on the front and her first name hand painted on the back, is still pushed to the way back of one of the cupboards. She retrieves and fills it as full as she thinks she can get away with without spilling and returns to the lounge to find Adler slowly rising to meet a standing Sherlock's eyes.

"I would have you right her on this table until you begged for mercy twice."

"Oh, yeah, good luck, honey," Anabeth scoffs. "Sherly's not into that kinda thing. Actually, I'm not sure he's into any kinda thing at all."

"Twice," Adler growls though it's more towards Anabeth than Sherlock.

"He's right, by the way." Ana motions to the detective with her glass before sipping from it. "Flight double-o-seven from Heathrow, leaves tomorrow at half past six in the afternoon."

"What did you say?" Sherlock says suddenly.

"Oh, come on Sherly, I know how egotistical and narcissistic you are, but I'm pretty sure we all heard me."

"Double-o seven, Annie-belle. You said double-o seven."

"Don't call me that!" Anabeth shouts. "Do not ever call me that. I'm not some stupid, naïve fifteen-year-old girl anymore!"

Sherlock winces. Or maybe it's just her imagination. "Don't call me Sherly," he says simply before going into a mantra of "Double-o seven" at John's questioning of it.

Anabeth's just content on drinking until she's passed out drunk. It's the only way she could cope with the darkness slowly creeping up on her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited. Prom is Saturday. I'm updating daily now. Since two weeks was ridiculous a time to wait. We'll be finished Sunday at this rate.


	29. It's No Longer Inside Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And to your left you see a pissed off Anabeth.

Despite the soft lighting in the study, Anabeth still had a pair of dark sunglasses perched on her nose trying and failing to shield her from a migraine. This is why she didn't drink. This is why she didn't get high. Because the end result was never as good as the route there.

 _Anymore_  should be added. She didn't get high  _anymore_.

John had abruptly demanded she sober up earlier, shortly after she finished that second glass of wine. Anabeth hadn't quite agreed, that is until they'd somehow managed to handcuff her to the table with nothing but a glass of water within her reach. Sure she could easily break free but there was that tiny little part of her brain that agreed with them. So she just gave a cocky smirk and called Sherlock a "kinky sonovabitch" as he slipped the key into his breast pocket.

She'd woke up in his bed once again to find one of Mycroft's minions ready to bring her to the plane.

Although she promptly fell back asleep as soon as she hit the back seat. Her head might have ended up in Sherlock's lap the whole ride.

Faintly she can hear an exasperate Mycroft in the background talking to a fairly confident Irene Adler about the stupid picture phone.

And then Sherlock's speaking, his closer presence causes her to wince at his voice.

 _Never again_ , she tells herself. But that was the very same thing she says all the time.

"Can't take all the credit," Adler says, and Ana's ears perk up at that. "Had a bit of help. Uh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."

Ana groans. "Of, course he does. It was you on the phone, wasn't it?" she sneers. "You were the one that made him change his mind that day in the pool. Don't you feel special?" She stands, her migraine forgotten for the moment, replaced by a sudden misplaced fury. "You have all this stuff - this talent - at your disposal. And he'll bring it to your attention make it feel like you're the only one he needs to get the job done. Give you advice on what to do, how to do it. Told you how to play them. The Ice Man, he calls you," she tells the older Holmes. "And The Virgin, despite my arguments.  _The Consultant Criminal_." Slowly she walks towards the table where Adler and Mycroft remain sitting. "Doesn't ask for anything in return. Doesn't need to. He gets off on seeing the trouble, the mayhem, the chaos. And now look at you; a dominatrix.  _The_ dominatrix. The one who brought an entire country to its knees. You think you're clever, don't you. You out smarted the Holmes boys. And all it took was a phone call. "Please Jim, help me."

"But there's one thing I guarantee never crossed your mind. He probably never even mentioned it. His first obsession. The first thing that could keep up with him. An easy enough kill, but he didn't count on a naive fifteen-year-old girl. She was innocent when they met. He couldn't kill her, it's quite impossible to. So he corrupted her. Made her the princess of his rapidly expanding reign. His Princess Annie-belle."

She smirks, for once proud to hold the title again. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her sunglasses.

"Not as smart, as either Holmes. Or maybe I am. Just not in the same way." She shrugs. "Doesn't matter much. Nicely played, although no cigar. I wish I could say I figured you out the moment I laid eyes on you. But it really wasn't until you handcuffed me to the table did I realize just how alike we are."

She give Adler a gentle smile, innocent, something reminiscent of her forgotten childhood.

"I mean, it's easy to see. I was drunk, not stupid. It's got everything to do with power. Jim, after all, has a power complex. Wait for it." She hold up her hand, three fingers held up, counting down. Three, two, one.

"Oh," comes Sherlock's realization.

"I'm a Quinn. I'm a Mercoletti." She pouts briefly. "I'm a Moriarty. One glance at my family tree and you see just how much power I have at my finger tips. Plus, I'm the baby. I get whatever I want. It's resulted in Younger Sibling Syndrome, but it's worth it. And you Miss Adler, you have your body. And your picture phone. And a power that I'll never have. Naive and innocent, remember.

"It's was fun, the game he introduced. But you got carried away. And I'll admit, I did too. Which is why I know you far more intimately then these two ever will."

Anabeth drops her gaze to the camera phone.

"May I?" she asks motioning to the device.

"Be my guest," Adler responds.

"You see, I find myself in a very similar... position, shall we say," the American says as she picks the phone up.

"And what is that?"

"They will tell you sentiment is a chemical defect found only in the losing side."

"Sentiment? I don't understand."

_S_

"But they're sociopaths, and I mean that in the best of ways. Incapable of truly expressing how they feel. Trust me, I've learnt the hard way. Falling in love with two such beings. In my opinion, sentiment is an advantage."

_H_

"It means I can fully sympathize, empathize with you."

"Oh dear god, look at you," Adler says as she stands. "You don't actually think I was interested in him? Why? Because he's the great Sherlock Holmes? The clever detective in the funny hat?"

_E_

"No, because-"

"Because I took your pulse," Sherlock interrupts.

Anabeth whips around furious. "No," she lashes. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you will sit your ass down and you will keep your mouth shut. Because I am Christabella Moriarty and you do not want to be in my path when I am angry. I'd tell you to ask about it, but I'm pretty I leave no survivors."

She turns back to see Adler, taken aback by the lashing out.

"You paint a self-portrait, when in disguise, no matter how hard you try to hide your true self. Trust me, I spy on people for a living, hide who I am constantly. Sometimes you just break."

She sighs.

"John told me once, that Sherlock doesn't understand love. But that's not quite true. Of course he understands the science side of it, but that's, of course, not what he meant. The emotional part he understands too, but it confuses him. I know this, because I've seen it in his eyes. Brief flickers here and there. And well, if you knew my past, I should be the last person speaking of love. But I married my high school sweetheart so maybe I didn't screw up too much.

"My heart was my sister. I don't know why, it just seemed right to push my feelings into another vessel. I died when she did. But this," she holds up the phone, "is yours. It's your protection, protected itself with countermeasures upon countermeasures. Only God and yourself are able to get in. Well... I might not be God, but I'm pretty damn close."

She chuckles.

_R_

"You see, Miss Adler, the reason I know all this, the reason I figured this out within a drunken half hour of knowing you is because I find myself...  _Sherlocked_  as well." She sets the phone gently back on the table in front of Mycroft. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch. It appears I have been emotionally compromised and am no longer assigned to this operation. Good evening."

And with that she leaves the stone silent room with nothing but the soft echo of her heels on the carpeted floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, damn, Ana, just rant, why dontcha?


	30. September Is Creeping Up Fast

She was  _told_  to forget London.

She was  _told_  to forget the Consulting Detective and his arch nemesis.

She was  _told_  to help with the benefit concert.

She  _did_  what she was told.

She  _did_  what she thought was right.

She  _ignored_  the texts.

She  _ignored_  the phone calls.

She  _ignored_  the stupid Skype ring tone when it woke her up at night.

She  _forgot_  the Reichenbach case.

She  _forgot_  reading it in the paper.

She  _forgot_  her father being impressed.

She  _forgot_  her mother glaring when he brings it up at dinner.

She  _forgot_  her Nema knocking at her bedroom door after she calmly left the table.

She was  _told_  to forget.

She  _helped_  with the benefit concert.

She  _performed_  in it.

She  _sang_  Hallelujah.

She  _received_  a standing ovation.

She  _forgot_.

She  _forgot_  until she saw that stupid deerstalker on the  _Yahoo!_  homepage when she went to check her email.

And then she  _forgot_.

She  _forgot_  until she booked that ticket to Heathrow.

And then  _she_   _forgot_.

She  _forgot_  until she stepped into the London air.

And  _then_   _she forgot_.

She  _forgot_  until she received a text saying "Welcome home, Annie-belle."

_And then she forgot._

She  _forgot_  until she reached Baker Street as the boys were rushing to the Tower of London.

And then she  _remembered_.

She always  _wanted_  to see the crown jewels.

* * *

**Tower of London**

"That glass is tougher than anything," Lestrade says as they watch Moriarty, Jim that is, break through the bulletproof glass case containing the crown jewels.

"Not stronger than crystallized carbon," Sherlock remarks. "He used a diamond."

Anabeth chuckles beneath her breath as Lestrade reverses the tape and changes the angle. "That bastard," she says amusedly. "That crazy bastard actually did it."

The video is paused right before Jim breaks the glass. His message of "Get Sherlock" clear as day.

* * *

**Central Criminal Court**

Anabeth sat beside John at the trail. On the side closest to the defendant. There was symbolism there.

It was bound to happen. Sherlock could only be civil for so long. And frankly it was longer than she figured.

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville," John says as the three of them step into the lounge. "Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in. No one knows how, or why."

"Chaos," Ana breathes as she slips into the kitchen for a glass of water.

John sighs as he sit in his chair. "All we know is..."

"He ended up in custody," Sherlock finished. His hands are pressed together and placed against his lips as he paces.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?"

"You're doing the look again."

"Well, I can't see it can I?"

John motions to the mirror hanging above the fireplace.

Sherlock turns to look at the mirror. "That's my face," he says. His hands flare out to the side before resting limply at his sides.

"Yes," Anabeth says. She's leaning on the doorframe, a look of adoration unbidden on her face.

The months she spent in America did good for her. Emotionally, at least. Physically, however... She was too skinny, no longer filling out that turquoise wrap dress she wore the second day of knowing the Baker Street boys.

Her eating habits were worse than Sherlock. And if he's being honest, he'd only ever seen her drink two glasses of almond milk ("I'm lactose intolerant," she told him. "No, you aren't. You drink milk all the time." "No, I haven't have a glass of regular milk since I was four. Looks like you haven't been paying attention.") and a shot of tequila. And now a glass of water.

"It's quite nice, if I do say so myself," she adds. "But you get this... bitchface almost. It's a "We all know what's really going on here" face."

"But we do," Sherlock argues.

"No," John rebuts. "I don't which is why if find the face so annoying."

"If Moriarty wanted the jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted the prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell is because he chose to be there." He sighs and returns to his pacing. "Somehow this is part of his scheme."

"Some men just want to watch the world burn," Anabeth breathes.

* * *

Anabeth was quick to help with the tea set the following day, before she went and locked herself into Sherlock's room. It wasn't what she had planned when she stopped by during the trial. For some reason she couldn't bring herself to attend without Sherlock's presence there.

It was too familiar, this scene, reminding her of how she originally found out about the delicate webbing around one James Moriarty. She wasn't repulsed by it, as she sat in the bedroom they shared whilst attending the Quinn's Fourth of July reunion in Savannah the summer after Sophomore year. Jim had been on the balcony that over looked the back garden on the phone.

She just happened to overhear.

Like she just happened to overhear Moriarty's very pointed statement of "You're on the side of the  _angels_."

There was a beat of silence and then; "Isn't that right,  _Annie-belle_? I know you're here! I can smell it. Honey and cinnamon, and something completely...  _angelic_."

Anabeth bit her tongue and fisted the sheets and dared not breathe until she heard Sherlock continue the conversation.

She didn't leave the room until long after Moriarty left the flat. And then It wasn't until Lestrade and Donovan showed up with a kidnapping case did she leave the room. And then it was only to excuse herself as she was late for a meeting.

* * *

**St. Bart's Hospital**

"This isn't going to end well," Anabeth murmurs to John. They're standing a table away from where Sherlock and Molly are talking to each other. "For either of us, Sherlock and I."

"I know," John replies. His voice is solemn, empty, like he didn't want to admit just how much he knew she was right.

"I've been here before. Hanging by strings waiting to either be cut loose pulled along. Like a marionette doll." She frowns. "I should've learned. I should've... I could've prevented this. If only I had just... done something."

"Anabeth," John breathes. "There really wasn't."

"You don't understand. I could have... fifteen years ago, I had the perfect chance. I knew what he was, what he did. And I still wanted to- I still let him walk away. I watched stoic as ever as he left me in that church."

John moved to comfort her but she just pushed him away and followed Molly out of the lab, trying not to cry.

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

Anabeth was sniveling in her sleep when Sherlock and John returned late that night. On the couch, curled beneath her red knit blanket, shiny black feathers were weaved into her hair, dried tear tracks left a salty residue through the makeup on her cheeks.

She slept through the search for the camera. And through the fight between the boys about what people are saying. She woke up right after Mrs Hudson brought up the parcel from earlier, right as Sherlock slipped his scarf on.

She yawned and sat up wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.

She remains silent as he calmly allowed the officers to arrest him. Just watches as Donovan talks down to John. Smirks when John punches the chief. Sighs when she hears the gun shot, knowing they've tried to escape. Leaves when she receives a text from Sherlock with an address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on the side of the angels.


	31. Beautiful Things Never Last

**Kitty Riley's Home**

"You boys certainly know how to rile people up," Anabeth says as she uncuffs the blogger and detective. "I had to dodge quite a few people to get away silently. Those assassins mostly."

"You didn't have to come," Sherlock says.

"Yeah well," she sticks the cuffs into her coat pocket. "Just because one of us is going to end up dead doesn't mean it has to be you."

No one says anything into response to that. John only flips the light off when prompted.

* * *

When the light is flipped on again, it's by Kitty. Anabeth is no longer sitting on the floor but on the armrest of the loveseat her back facing the lamp, feet bare and crammed beneath Sherlock's legs. Her shoes are toppled over on the ground, and his arm is around her waist, to make sure she doesn't topple over herself. Still, it has Ana's stomach doing flips.

"Too late to go on record?" the detective asks.

* * *

Anabeth's silent again though watchful as a hawk, which Sherlock is beginning to equate it with  _Christabella_  and not  _Anabeth_ , as Sherlock questions Kitty doesn't move from her position on the couch until the door is opened once more.

"Darlin', they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got you-"

And she's off the couch and protectively in front of Sherlock in the blink of an eye.

"Y-you said they wouldn't find me here," Moriarty said as he pushed himself against the wall. Fear riddled his eyes as he took in the unexpected trio. "You said I was safe."

"You are safe," Kitty counters. "I'm a witness. He won't harm you when there are witnesses."

"So that's your source?" John surges forward. "Moriarty is Richard Brook?" he asks. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

"Of course he's Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty. There never has been."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look him up. Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."

"Doctor Watson," Moriarty says, wearily. "I know you're a good man. Don't - heh - don't hurt me."

"No, you're Moriarty. He's Moriarty!" John shouts. "We met. Remember? You were going to blow me up."

Moriarty covered his face. "I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm sorry. But," he motions to Sherlock, "h-he paid me, I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work."

"Sherlo-"

"NO!"

Four pairs of eyes land on the little olive-skinned woman, stunned by her outburst. Moriarty jumps and stumbles backward, realistically frightened by her.

"No. Not this time James. I will not let you stand around and do this to them. I won't let it happen again. Poor Kitty has the wool pulled so far over her eyes. Just like you did to me. You are a bastard."

"I'm sorry," Kitty says sounding actually apologetic. "But there's no such person as James Moriarty. He's Richard Brooke. Here," she hands John a folder filled with papers and articles on Richard Brook spanning back years.

"I am sorry. Really I am. She's an actress too," Moriarty says pointing to Anabeth. "An amazing one, she's been in plays at the West End. It was a few years ago. She mostly just dances now."

Anabeth takes a step forward, a growl ripping through her throat that has Moriarty scrambles away. "You may not be on the side of the angels, James, but  _never forget_  that I  _am_  one of them." She goes to grab him but he slips away and Sherlock and John chase after him up the stairs. Well, John chases after Sherlock.

"I will smite you!" Christabella calls after her husband. "I will burn you from the inside out!"

She doesn't wait for the boys to return, already figuring Moriarty has escaped, simply grabs her heels and leaves. She's gone by the time Sherlock and John make it outside.

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

Anabeth is pacing his bedroom when he returns to the flat alone. John hasn't been back yet either.

Her hair is a mess, all tangled and twisted and filled with silky black feathers. Her dress is torn, from something earlier in the night. All the makeup on her face has been removed, and for once it's easy to see how tired and sick she is.

She doesn't say anything when Sherlock comes into the room. She pauses in her movement and looks relieved for the time being.

Until Sherlock says what they both have been dreading to hear.

"I think I'm going to die."

"I think I am too."

If the kiss Christabella stole lead to other things that night, they don't talk about it. Sherlock certainly doesn't question the black feathers in the bed in the morning.

If John realizes anything when he sees Sherlock wrapped in his sheet and Anabeth in nothing but the man's button up at the table with breakfast the next morning, he doesn't show it.

If Moriarty suspects anything when Anabeth confronts him later that day, he doesn't say anything.

He doesn't have to.

The gunshot to the chest said enough.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

The timid voice of Mrs Hudson draw Sherlock from his thoughtful reverie as her stared out the window, but he doesn't turn.

"Ana-" The older lady had to clear her throat. "She left this for you. When she first moved out, told me I'd know when the right time to give it to you was."

She doesn't elaborate any further. The envelope, same as those letters to her before, is set on the coffee table before she leaves.

It isn't until John's left for the day, and Mrs. Hudson had gone on a grocery run, that he picks up the letter and breaks the red wax seal. There was an angel on it.

 _Sherlock_ , the letter read.

_One of two things has happened for you to get this letter. Either Moriarty is dead or I am._

_Of course if Moriarty is dead, then that means I'm back in America for the time being. Don't count on me being gone for too long. I'm only there to debrief and quit before I return. I quite like being a piano teacher. You can probably stop reading and send me a text about sentiment._

_If I'm dead, I'm sorry. Of course, I know you don't really care for me. I don't count. Sort of like Molly but different. Perhaps I should have said 'love' instead of 'care'._

_I knew it was coming. I knew the moment that I accepted the case in Langley that it was going to end one of two ways._

_I didn't realize how much I would change on the way._

_That's how it goes, isn't it?_

_I assume that if I'm alive then you've stopped reading by now and that the rest of this is futile. I really hope that's the case._

_When I was younger, my sister Payton, my heart and soul... We used to lie in this meadow we found just past the line of trees bordering the vineyard in Virginia at night and look up at the stars and watch fireflies. Sometimes we'd catch them and squish them on our bellies and draw glow-in-the-dark smiley faces on ourselves._

_I'd almost always ask her why they flashed. And she'd tell me that biologically it was for attracting a mate. Which I never liked, mainly because I was eight and boys still had cooties. And not the cute kind you make with the children's game._

_But then she said that, abstractly, she liked to think that God used it to symbolize the fleetingness of beauty in nature. In life. That it's here one moment and gone the next. But never for long._

_I guess that always stuck with me._

_Even long after the cancer stole Payton from us. I'd always tell myself that it's only dark now. It'll be bright soon. The firefly of life will flash._

_And it did. When my siblings married. Or my nieces and nephews were born._

_When I met Dean._

_When I met you and John. Mainly you._

_I guess this is it then. I think I'll get this before I leave if I'm not dead. I mean, I'm sure I can handle unrequited feelings, but knowing that you know is a different story. So yeah, if you've read this, this is it._

_My last goodbye._

_Yours truly,  
Christabella_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Okay. Last one for today. I was supposed to do a double yesterday for my friend's birthday. But I ended up having to work on my Dad's brakes. Tomorrow will be a double as well since I have Prom on Saturday, and then that's it. It's over. Only two chapters left.


	32. That's Why Fireflies Flash

_"I am not going to be back until late. Do not wait up for me." Anabeth, who'd managed to make yesterday's skirt and Sherlock's button up into a decent looking outfit, stood at the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge. She'd only towel dried her hair from her shower this morning and her face was devoid of any beauty product, but she still looked the best she had since her return to London._

_"Where are you going?" John asks as he peers over the back of his chair._

_"Out, with friends. I still have a social life here, believe it or not."_

_"You'll call me if you get into trouble, right?"_

_John glanced at Sherlock at the question, his brows furrowed together. Maybe his first thought this morning was true._

_"Of course," Anabeth replies half a beat later._

_"Good."_

* * *

_"Have you heard from Christabella?"_

_John looks up from his laptop, his brow furrowed at the name. "Anabeth, you mean?"_

_"Obviously, John."_

_"No, I haven't." He frowns. "Didn't she say not to wait up, that she'd call you if she was in trouble?"_

_"She's not responding to my texts."_

_"I'm sure she's fine."_

* * *

_It wasn't Molly in the morgue when they arrived. To be honest, John had no idea who the kid was. Someone new?_

_He couldn't really concentrate on that at the moment because it hurt too much. Maybe not nearly as much as it hurt Sherlock._

_It was different this time. Unlike Adler's deaths, the pain was actually visible._

_Or maybe it's just him projecting his emotions. He never realized how much Anabeth truly meant to them._

_They just took her presence for granted. Never even asked her favorite color, they just assumed._

John's jolted awake by the shrill sound of his mobile phone.

Sherlock's staring out into space thinking. That's all he's done since, well since Moriarty took away Anabeth.

He doesn't even pay attention to a frantic John on the phone. His word are just a hollow echo.

"Yes, speaking... Er, what? ... What happened? Is she okay? ... Oh my god. Right, yes, I'm coming."

By the time he's off the phone, the detective's realized something's wrong. "What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson - she's been shot."

"What? How?" But he doesn't sound too worried.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attra-" he takes a deep breath like it's suddenly hit him that there's a band of serial killers after them. "Jesus.  _Jesus._  She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."

He turns to leave, anxious to see if his landlady is okay.

"You go. I'm busy." He really isn't all to worried and maybe that should've clued John in.

The doctor turns around and stomps back towards his best friend. "Busy?"

"Thinking," Sherlock replies pointedly. "I need to think."

"You need to ...? That's all you've done since Anabeth was killed! I'm sorry your girlfriend's dead; I cared for her too!" That was cold, considering the poor girl had only died two days ago. "But Mrs Hudson needs us. Doesn't she mean  _anything_  to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

Sherlock shrugged. "She's my landlady."

"She's dying..." He flails a hand in front of himself in utter disbelief at Sherlock's attitude. "You  _machine_." He shakes his head. "Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have." He watches as John angrily walks back to the door. "Alone protects me."

John pauses glancing back, his eyes going distant. "No.  _Friends_  protect people."

* * *

_John,_

_I'm going to be completely honest with you. I'm only writing this because I felt bad that I didn't give you an explanation. I wrote Sherlock's months ago, before I went on my six month long binge._

_Holy fuck, it's been almost a year._

_Tomorrow, I'm going to do something incredibly stupid. Actually, if you're reading this note, I've already done it._

_I'm doing it for you. For everyone whose every fallen prey to Jim's schemes. For me, who leads that list. And for Sherlock, because I owe him so much._

_You've done so much for him. Given him hope that there's someone who will always believe in him. Don't ever lose faith in him, it's not misplaced._

_Mycroft really should learn to not boast about his brother._

_I loved him you know. Fancy writing it in a letter to his best friend when I couldn't admit it to myself until Moriarty walked into Kitty Riley's apartment._

_You've been a great friend John. You and Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson._

_I might actually like you more than I do my own family. Though, that's not really that hard. There's one person I despise more than them, and he's trying to tear the fabric of reality as we know it._

_Going after Moriarty... Definitely not the brightest idea I've ever had. Then again, I'm routinely called a dumb ass._

_I prefer the term protective. Less dumb. Less ass._ _A bit more professional, don't ya think_ _?_

_I'm not doing this as Agent Quinn. I'm doing this as a friend. As Anabeth. As Christabella._

_Thanks for everything, John._

_Anabeth_

* * *

Sherlock doesn't see where the shot came from. Didn't even hear the shot either.

He only watched with surprise as Moriarty's lifeless body fell to the side, scarlet spattered across the previously gray rooftop.

* * *

"Hello?'

_"John."_

"Sherlock, you okay?"

_"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."_

"No, I'm coming in."

_"Just do as I ask. Please."_

"Where?"

_"Stop there."_

"Sherlock?"

" _Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."_

"Oh, god."

_"I-I-I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this."_

"What's going on?"

_"An apology. It's all true."_

"Wh-what?"

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."_

"Why are you saying this?"

_"I'm a fake."_

"Sherlock..."

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. Chris- I only regret that Christabella was pulled into the mess as well."_

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... The  _first time we met_ , you knew all about my sister, right?"

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

" _You_  could."

_"...I researched you... Before we met I discovered everything that I could impress you... It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

"No. All right, stop it now."

_"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."_

"All right."

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

"Do what?"

_"This phone call - it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they - leave a note?"_

"...Leave a note when?"

_"Goodbye, John."_

"No. Don't."

This couldn't be happening.

He can't lose both his best friends in three days.

"No.  _SHERLOCK_!"

* * *

John and Mrs Hudson are sitting in the back of a cab as it drives into a graveyard. Mrs Hudson is holding two bunches of flowers. One a bright gathering of lilies, the other a bouquet of purple orchids.

_"What are those?"_

_"Purple dendrobium orchid."_

_"That's quite specific."_

_"Chirstabella was very specific in her likings."_

Not long afterwards, they stand beside each other in front of a black marble headstone, the name Sherlock Holmes engraved into it. The yellow flowers are now resting at the base.

There's a soft silence between them, after John reassures Mrs. Hudson that he's not actually that angry but before she murmurs she'll leave them alone to talk.

"I'll go give these to Ana."

And with that she leaves John alone.

It was curious, the way Anabeth's body was dealt with. The thought surely her body would be brought back to America, to buried on the family plot in Virginia. But after less than twenty-four hours, a gentle older Cherokee woman shows up and starts planning the funeral.

_"Sylvia Mercoletti, Christie's nema."_

_"Sherlock Holme-"_

_The woman smiled brightly. Something comforting in her eyes. "Oh, she's told me much about,_ a-yo-li _. You're her heart."_

It's hard for John to say it. Whatever it is that he needed to say. The words are choppy and rushed. And maybe it would have been better to visit Ana's grave first.

The marble is cold against his finger tips.

"There's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be..." His voice is rough and the tears are obvious. "...dead. Would you do... ? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

He sighs and lowers his head. The wind blows gently, and the rustle of fabric is heard behind him. For a moment he thinks it's Mrs. Hudson, until the speak.

"I... I know I'm not Sherlock but..."

John spins around with his eyes wide. "H-how? I saw-"

Anabeth shrugged. "Sorry about that. I needed you both to completely believe I was dead. It was the only way I could get away with it. If it helps, Moriarty thought me dead as well."

"It doesn't." But he hugs her anyway, because yes, she's actually here. They could mourn together. "I still don't understand..." he says pulling back. "You were shot in the chest."

She smiles. "I told you. In Kitty Riley's apartment. Well, I shouted it at Moriarty. I'm an angel. John. It's quite impossible to kill me."

Yeah, okay, she's said that before. It was plausible, as long as the bullet had missed any vital organs.

As they walk back to the taxi ("No, I won't be joining you home, I don't think Mrs. Hudson could handle that. I'll stop by in the morning."), John speaks up.

"He's really gone, isn't he?"

"I dunno, John," she breathes looking away into the tree line, ignoring the gaze that met hers. "I don't think even Sherlock Holmes could pull that off."

It wasn't until John had called her name did she realize she'd been staring.

"What is it?"

"Sorry, nothing. Must have been a bird."

"Alright."

They continue, although Ana's a step or two behind John.

"You promise to tell Mrs. Hudson tomorrow?" John asks as a small breeze blows and rustles the fabric of Ana's dress again. "I don't think-" but when he turns to glance at her she's already gone.


	33. Epilogue

Christabella Quinn-Moriarty, or Anabeth as she preferred, didn't always act the way she did. No, not at all. Growing up, she was never the broken girl she was now. No one knew why, or how for that matter, she became the hollow, empty thing she after she returned from the aftermath of a two-year op in London.

It worried her family, all nine of them, to the point of putting her into therapy. Not that it helped at all. Whenever any of the three CIA-vetted therapists got something out of her it would immediately be scratched after some variation of the eminent question of, "How does that make you feel?"

"I can't," she'd reply with a vacant voice.

"You have to feel something," they'd argue.

"I'm just numb. There's nothing left. It's gone, all of it. Everything. Gone."

At that point, her employer appointed her a new therapist. None ever got farther than what they already knew. She pulled herself out of therapy after six brutal months, retiring far too early and returning to London once again.

They all blamed the loss of love, too much heartbreak in too short of a period. There'd have to be love for that to be true.

Maybe it was her past finally catching up to her, all those mistakes and regrets and bad choices showing their ugly faces once more, and smothering her with all of their inky pain and misery. Draining her of what was left of her will.

Perhaps it was the memories that haunted her dreams of a could-of-should-of-would-of romance that really shouldn't have to begin with. The one in which she danced around the true problem she clutched onto. Youngest Child Syndrome was looking good. She was, after all the youngest of seven (eight at one point) children. After all that attention disappeared, she clutched onto the first thing that glanced her way..

Or perhaps it was the infuriating man that lived in the flat above her, that tore away her walls she'd spent decades building, brick by insignificant brick before getting frustrated and just completely shattered them into a billion little pieces of rubble.

It could have been all the secrets and lies she had to keep to herself. And yet it could have been all the deception, all the betrayal she received from those closest to her.

It could have been any of it.

Or all of it.

Or none of it.

She didn't know.

It was like Payton used to say all those years ago. Long before the fear of losing her loomed over their shoulders and there was a boy with a warm smile, deep brown eyes, messy hair, and a promise of forever to distract her. They'd lay in the itchy grass of some hidden meadow just past the last row of grapes on the vineyard on a warm summer night, staring up at the stars as lightning bugs danced in the slight breeze.

Anabeth would turn her blue-eyed gaze to meet her sister's and ask, as if the answer ever changed; "Why do fireflies flash?"

Payton would turn with a small smile, expecting the question, and respond; "Is that an abstract question?"

The younger girl would look back up at the stars, her gaze chasing after the lights that drifted and blinked. "No." Then, after a while; "Yes."

"Well, scientifically, it's a special chemical reaction they control to attract a mate. But abstractly... I think it symbolizes the birth and death of beauty in life," she'd respond.

Or something like that.

Sometimes it was happiness. Sometimes it was faith. Sometimes it was light.

And maybe Payton Georgia Tiffany Grace Quinn was onto something.

Beauty (or happiness, or faith, or light) in life was fleeting, like a heartbeat, here one moment gone the next. In need of grabbing and being loved, before it disappears altogether.

And maybe that was Anabeth's downfall. Maybe she was indifferent to it all for too long.

After all fireflies don't flash during the day.

Needless to say, this is where our story ends. A cliché for an almost cliché story in which two people meet and, with the help of some outside catalysts, find an almost unwanted companionship. A companionship that's torn by love and hate, beauty and ugliness, life and death. No one said it was going to be a happy ending.

* * *

" _The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."  
Elie Wiesel_

* * *

**_That's it guys. The final chapter. I hope you enjoyed it. I have a sequel and a couple of timestamps that happen in between the two that I'm working on. Unless you guys want me to just stop... Cause I will... but that's really a shitty ending. And the true end might not be a happily ever after but at least it's better than this._ **


End file.
